


Home is where the heart lies

by Laila_Writes



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Basically Sam's there when Dean rises from the grave, Caring Dean Winchester, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Hurt Sam Winchester, Episode: s04e01 Lazarus Rising, Gen, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Episode AU: s03e16 No Rest For The Wicked, Post-Hell Dean Winchester, Protective Dean Winchester, Sick Sam Winchester, but au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-15 04:48:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 22,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29430507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laila_Writes/pseuds/Laila_Writes
Summary: Everyday, after hunting as many demonic uglies as he can, Sam Winchester comes home.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 12
Kudos: 39





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is an AU tag to the scene where Dean rises up from the grave in Lazarus Rising. It begins before that, though. Starts with Sam's pov. Angst fest ahead. Heh.
> 
> Read and review, lovelies.

The sand and grit felt familiar beneath the scuff of Sam's boots as he stumbled into the field, his legs automatically carrying him where he wanted to go, even as his mind struggled to catch up. The haze of whiskey added with beer warmed him more than the tattered, blood stained coat he wore.

His hands shook around the cold neck of the bottle as he brought it back to his mouth and took a large swig. Half a mouthful until nothing dripped down his throat.

Frustrated, he flung it carelessly, the glass cracking but not breaking as it rolled to rest against a nearby rock.

He fell to his knees, letting the momentum carry him towards the ground as he curled up in the same place he had for the last four months. The chipped pieces of wood dug into the same places they had since the very first day he had fell asleep with the marker at his back.

He welcomed the pain.

Focused on it until the throbbing, dripping mess made him want to cry out. But he bit his lip and smothered the screams.

He brought his knees as close as he could towards his chest. The fetal position rendered him vulnerable to any and all elements of the night. Not to mention the Supernatural uglies who all seemed to have it out for him.

They would be coming for him. Sam should be worried. Should stay awake and stay on guard like dad had taught him.

_No. Like Dean had._

_Dean had taught him everything he knew. He had taught him how to hunt. How to read, how to brush his teeth, how to speak, how to dress. Dean had taught him everything._

_Dean had raised him up. Given him a reason to live for and a reason to die for._

Sam shivered as another cold wind made its way through the meagre layers of clothing. He gripped the edges of the leather jacket and tugged them closer to his chest. It always kept him warm. Like it always had.

Even the cold bite of the amulet as it rested against his collarbone emitted a warmth of its own.

He couldn't remember the last time he had worn his own clothes. They still lay, untouched, in his duffel in the trunk of the Impala. Now it was Dean's bag that sat beside him in the passenger seat as he drove around, night after night, hunt after hunt. Guns blazing, eyes devoid of the sympathy that made him _Sam_. That made him _Sammy,_ as Dean had once said.

_Well, tough, Dean. That Sammy is gone. He died when you did_ , Sam had repeated to the Dean inside his mind every time he killed a demon, not caring about the human it had possessed. Every time he couldn't bring himself to care that he was too late to save a victim. Every time he interrogated the bereaved in a calculated manner, eyes lacking the warmth.

Somewhere, an owl screeched, loud enough to echo painfully among the silent night. Sam didn't even flinch, eyes unseeing, skin cold and rippling from time to time with a coldness that never seemed to go away.

Occasionally, a tear slipped through and fell on the dirt that his cheek lay on. His heart beating steadily but grudgingly. As if all the forces of the nature worked to keep it beating even as Sam wished it would stop.

When Jess had died, a part of Sam had too. But somehow, miraculously, Dean had managed to salvage the missing parts of Sam and fixed it as best he could. There was still a hole that ached if he thought about her too hard, but there was also wistfulness where before there had only been grief and darkness. Dean's words had helped him move on, to honour her memory.

But now ...

_Now ... now was pain more than Sam thought was possible for a human to feel. It hurt. Everything hurt. It hurt to breathe the air that Dean wasn't here to share. It hurt to eat, to think, to drive, to hunt. It even hurt to give up. It just hurt._

_But maybe that was it. It wasn't pain a human was supposed to feel. And he wasn't, was he? He was Sam Winchester, Boy King of Hell, the one chosen to lead the very thing they hunted. A monster around whom every person died. Mom, Jess, Dad, Madison ... Dean._

_"Yeah, well, I'm not dying."_

_"As long as I'm around, nothing bad's gonna happen to you."_

_"No. I'd rather die."_

Sam's breath hitched, the tears flowing faster, as his body shook with grief that never seemed to end. As the thoughts that chased each other around his broken mind screamed at him again. Just like they had for the past four months.

He whimpered.

_"This is my brother, Sammy."_

_"He said he was sorry."_

_"I gotcha."_

_"I dare you to drink it."_

_"College boy, thinks he's so smart ... so proud of you, Sammy ... served up in a dirty ashtray."_

_"I'm worried 'bout you, man. It's gonna be okay, Sam. That's my boy."_

_"Hey, Sam. SamSammyCollegeBoySasquatchKiddoSammyDudeGeekSamSammySammySAMMYSAMMY"_

A guttural scream reverberated through the trees, the pain in it enough to pierce through anyone's heart if someone had been around to hear it. Skitters and howls followed it as the local wildlife scattered away in fear. And for long seconds all was in chaos as the scream continued until it was choked off abruptly.

Sam clutched his head and whimpered a single name over and over, voice hoarse and ragged. Just as suddenly, his dinner of yesterday, a sandwich, made a reappearance.

He was barely able to make it to his elbows before the heaves overtook him and he emptied his almost empty stomach near the rugged grave marker, being careful not to taint the actual burial spot.

His arms shook from tiredness and from having to hold his half upright body through the painful attempts at cleansing that his stomach seemed stubborn on carrying out.

He spat out bile and spit before collapsing onto his back, his blurry eyes barely able to make out the stars and the half moon before he lost his fight with consciousness, body relaxing, one hand curled against his back and touching the wooden cross, the other hanging limply onto the black leather cord around his neck, the ugly figure nestled within a dirty palm.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is still Sam, but I promise that Dean appears in the next one. Pure angst in this one. Hurt/Comfort in the next.
> 
> Read and review, lovelies. I would like to know what y'all think. I'm having so much fun writing this.

The sun poking its head hesitantly through the dark clouds woke him up, setting off a marching band inside his head and the usual plethora of questions.

_Wha ...? Where? Dean?_

The last one brought everything back and Sam squeezed his eyes shut, scrambling wildly on the wet ground for the glass bottle that he usually slept with.

A frustrated growl escaped his lips as all he could feel was the wet mud and emptiness.

_Wait ... wet?_

He opened his eyes to the barest minimum and rolled his head around. He could see the glinting leaves and the dark mud through his slitted eyes.

He snorted sardonically. Of course. He had slept through a frigging downpour. Now that he was a bit more awake, he could see his clothes sticking to his body and the feeling of intense coldness swept over him so suddenly that he shivered hard.

He squeezed his eyes shut and relaxed fractionally. Wouldn't matter if he got ill anyway. No one to drag him off to bed and warm him up. And he didn't possess enough strength to do it himself.

He knew he should. He owed that much.

But ... he was just so _tired._

The anvil pounding behind his eyes reached a new crescendo and he winced slightly, wrapping his arms around the wet jacket clinging to him. He turned onto his side and curled up, like it was the most comfortable place on earth.

He would have to get up. Go on to kill the other black eyed sons of bitches. He wondered if today would be the day that he would be killed. No one could blame him if he died on the hunt.

He still hoped though. Hoped that today's demon would be the one to give him his brother back.

His big brother who was burning in hell even now.

All for him.

Sam's eyes shot open and he fisted his hands tight. Trying to keep the emotions at bay. He wasn't ready yet to deal with them. His stock of whiskey still lay in the back seat of the Impala.

Speaking of ...

He could see her just where he had haphazardly parked her, about twenty feet away. The doors and fenders mud washed, a sheer contrast to how they used to glint when Dean had been here. Even the rain from last night hadn't been enough to wash away the stain of four long months.

Sam couldn't seem to coax her to purr and glide like his brother had been able to. She felt about to sputter and die even when he had filled her with gas and fuel.

Partly, it was his fault, he knew that. But he couldn't bring himself to care.

The car, Baby, after all wasn't the thing that Dean had left broken and beyond repair.

Sam could feel the threat of tears again. Abruptly, he stood up, and without giving himself time to still his swaying world, he stumbled across to the car and wrenched the back door open.

The chill of the ice box hit his numbed skin but he paid it no heed, even as the strength of the shivers went up a notch. He had a feeling that he was coming down with something.

Unsurprisingly, he pushed that thought away and rooted within the ice and ignoring the beer cans, withdrew his hand, clutching a fresh bottle of whiskey.

He slammed the lid shut, the door following quickly after.

Unscrewing the top of the bottle took surprisingly less time considering his lack of coordination and the fact that he was seeing two trees where there should be one and two grave markers in the place of one.

Maybe it had now become as ingrained in him as his hunting instincts had.

He took a long swig of the burning liquid, not even wincing as it lit up a fire sliding down his raw throat. He preferred the fire to the cold.

Ironic, considering his whole life had been haunted by fire.

He lowered himself against a nearby tree so that he could keep both the place where he had buried Dean, _buried his big brother,_ and the Impala within his sight.

_Buried Dean._

_Dean. His brother. His saviour. The man who raised him, who made it all worth doing. Who had lived for him and who had died for him._

_Was this his destiny? To be left alone? To be made cold and vulnerable until he didn't care whether he became the leader of demons?_

_Until he couldn't care enough if the world burnt?_

_Why would he?_

_Why would he care about others' world when his' had burnt to the ground? When his' was still burning in hell?_

_"Because, Sam, you are my little brother. You are the floppy haired, wide eyed kid who cares more about others than about himself. I'm happy as long as you are okay, Sammy. But you ... You would go to the ends of the world to make others lives better. Me? I'm okay as long as people are safe. But you want them all to have perfect lives even if it means that you don't."_

Sam could feel the tears flowing down his cheeks even as the whiskey flowed down his throat. He cursed their lives, cursed himself. Cursed Dean for making him want to be good. Cursed Dean for leaving him alone to carry on. Cursed Dean for loving him so much.

He couldn't even remember when he had started talking aloud. But once he did, the words trickled out until they were a storm in and of itself.

"... couldn't have been more than 15 when you told me that. You believed in me more than I ever did. But I guess I believed in you more than you ever believed in yourself. We were messed up like that, huh?"

They needed each other to stand. Without one, the other would topple.

Sam laughed hollowly, letting his head drop back to the bark of the tree. The clouds had moved on to cover the sun fully until only gray light filtered to the earth. He wondered how long it would take for the rain to start again. He would be awake this time to feel the drops on his skin.

He wouldn't seek shelter, even as he felt the fever under his skin slowly rising. He wouldn't seek shelter in the Impala. Not even she could give him the safety that he craved.

He would be fine.

_"Yeah, Sam. Fine. I can see just how fine you are."_

He chortled at Dean's voice that had always been present since he was a year old. Well, at least, it had been there, when the real thing hadn't been enough to guide him.

He took another drink.

"Mind-Dean won't be 'nough this time, y'know? It used to be, when you were away on a hunt or to a bar. Your voice kep' me from losin' my shit or goin' crazy. 's ironic. Since, now your voice juss remin's me that the real you isn' coming back. It's _driving_ me crazy."

He choked on a sob and swallowed another gulp from the now half-filled bottle.

When he was three, Dean had gone to school and even though he cried all day long for Dean until he was back in _De's_ arms, Dean's voice had been the one to make him eat and pee and nap. Dad had been relieved when the wailing toddler had eaten and slept.

But it wasn't dad's voice that convinced him to take care of himself.

It was Dean's. Had always been Dean's.

"'m havin' a biiig chick-flick mo-moment, big brother. You'd tell me - hah - you'd tell me to shuddup"

Sam giggled through fresh tears, vaguely hearing his words beginning to slur.

When he was older and dad had started taking Dean on hunts, Mind-Dean would keep him entertained and calm through lonely nights. Worry for his family would have made Sam starve himself to death but through magical big bro power Dean had taken care of Sam even from hundreds of miles away.

It should have confused Dean when Sam had told Dean over the phone "Yeah, Dean. I took a nap. You wouldn't stop bugging me 'bout it, after all". Even though that was the first time they had spoken over the phone that day.

But Dean just ... he just seemed to know. Like always. He would just chuckle and agree. "Damn right, Sammy. Princesses need their beauty sleep. I gotta go, though. You keep listening to me, little brother, alright?"

Yeah. Like Sam would ever stop listening to him.

"Fiiiinee. 'm not listenin' t'you now. Why dontcha come make me listen. Huh? Make me, brooooo."

Sam giggled harder and stared hard at the surface beneath which Dean laid.

Like Dean would appear to save him. Like he always had.

But not anymore. He hadn't come when Sam had called the past four months.

Why would he come now?

"You din' come, Deeaa. You can't make me. You left me, remem-rem- you left me."

Sam broke into fresh sobs, this time gasping for breath as he struggled to breath through the pain in his chest and the cold air clogging his nostrils. He wondered if he was dying. Or if he would feel this way until he wasted away into nothingness.

He dropped his head into the cold hand that wasn't holding onto the whiskey and rubbed his aching head, tangled strands of greasy hair catching on his fingers, sending sparks of sharp pain to his scalp as they pulled at the tender flesh there. He wiped the hand down his face, rubbing away most of the tears and snot.

Suddenly, his head shot up, vision blurry, as he saw something move in the place that remained in his periphery.

Moving in the place where it had been too still for too long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Cursed Dean for leaving him alone to carry on" : Lol. I swear to God, I didn't mean for this sentence to come out this way. But I was rereading the chapter and my mind just went "uh oh". Painful on a whole 'nother level. Oops. ;)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry. Dean just makes an appearance in this chapter. The both of them will "meet" in the next chapter. I promise! Don't kill me!
> 
> Read and review, lovelies.

Sam looked down at the amber liquid filling up quarter of the bottle and back up at what was surely his hallucination.

His vision wasn't that wobbly, was it?

It did look like the earth itself was breaking apart.

Earthquake? Zombies? It didn't exactly shock a hunter like him, but it piqued his curiosity.

He wiped at the sweat gathering on his forehead, setting the bottle on the ground beside him, and stilled. He brought his hands in front of his eyes and sighed harshly, blinking his eyes closed for a moment.

Of course.

A fever. Topped with possible hypothermia. With a very healthy dose of inebriation, if not alcohol poisoning.

He was either hallucinating or asleep. And since he could feel the various aches from nights of crap sleep and unhealed injuries from careless hunts, he was pretty sure he was, unfortunately, wide awake.

Sam sighed and half rose to his feet before leaning back against the tree trunk. Half in exhaustion, half indifferent. It wasn't like there was anything real for him to fight anyways. And even if there was ...

He shook his head. If there was, he _would_ give it the best he could. He was a Winchester. And Winchesters go down fighting.

He should know. He was the only remaining one after all.

The earth moved again. But this time, Sam was sure it wasn't an earthquake. For starters, it was just the land above the grave that was moving.

So ... a zombie?

With that thought, Sam froze. Because a zombie rising from Dean's grave ... did Dean become one? Or did one of the demons actually grant his deal?

A sudden flash of anger made Sam growl. Of course a demon would take the first chance it got to twist the deal. Dean had come back but he wasn't _Dean._

As quickly as the thought appeared, it disappeared. No. It couldn't be. There were no more deals to be made. All of them had refused. _All of them._

But he would be forced to stop Dean if he had become a zombie. That was their plan, wasn't it? And below him, the black eyed bastards would be laughing at his pain. All over again.

Well, tough. Because right now? He would take Dean in any form he could get.

Sam faltered, slumping back like a puppet with its strings cut. The bark dug painfully into his wounds, as if the brief flash of _angerhopehopelessnessgrief_ had left him drained of whatever energy he had left.

He wondered, disconnectedly, whether the exhaustion was due to his steadily rising fever or the bone deep weariness that had latched onto his body since ... since _that_ day, four months ago.

But then again, seeing as he had reached new levels, hallucinations and what nots, instead of just wavering lights and colours flashing across his vision on occasion, the perpetrator was probably his fever. Urged on by the exhaustion, of course.

He wasn't exactly what anyone would call a man on the peak of his health.

He watched warily as the earth shifted more until a hand seemed to reach out of the depths, just like in those so-called freaky, zombie shows. Sam shifted a bit, hand automatically reaching for the gun he kept tucked in his waistband.

Halfway through, he stopped. _Why would he need to fight off his mind's tricks using a gun?_

Besides, he was pretty sure that he didn't have the weapon on him, the Taurus lying on the passenger seat along with the still bloody knife, all giving silent companionship to Dean's duffel and the various shirts tossed around.

Detachedly, he wondered how long it had been since he had cleaned anything. At all. His weapons hadn't been cleaned, except for a careless swipe of blood on a blade down his jeans. Which rendered almost all of his pants, and a couple of Dean's, beyond salvageable.

He let his arm flop back limply to the ground, fingers brushing the inviting chill of the bottle he had discarded moments ago.

For once, he was more interested in something else than drowning himself in alcohol. So he watched.

Another hand reappeared, dirtied palms raised almost as if begging for help.

Sam twitched, some basic instinct in him urging him forward to help Fake-Dean, zombie-Dean ... but he didn't. God knows this twisted dream was the only thing he was getting. It would be just like him to dissolve the illusion in the name of helping when there was no one to help.

Too little. Too late.

There was no helping now.

Sam's breath hitched. Two feet in front of him was a hallucination of every hope, every dream he had harnessed for the past 122 days. Fresh tears surged down his fever pink cheeks as he felt the level of cruelty that the universe kept throwing at him.

As if fighting to keep Dean on earth wasn't enough. As if watching him torn apart by hounds from hell wasn't enough. As if going through the motions of life without the one constant he had had for the past 24 years wasn't enough.

Now God, the angels, the fucking world they fought to keep safe every day, was dangling hope in front of him. Like misery wasn't enough.

Anger seeps through him, ebbing and flowing, leaving him more drained than before. He slumped further with a slow exhale and kept his eyes on the now emerging figure.

He almost expected the figure, whatever, whoever, it was to rush at him the moment he/it is out of the soil. It turned out to be a bit anticlimactic.

The figure is not that far away and the dull light of the sun is enough to highlight every feature. And even if it had been dark with only starlight to go by, Sam would have identified him.

Dean.

Sam exhaled wistfully, watching as his brother dragged himself out, a grimace painted on his features before slumping on the ground beside the hole on the ground, his back to Sam.

Every instinct and nerve and blood cell screamed at Sam to run, crawl, _fly_ to Dean and get lost within his big brother's arms like he had so many times growing up. When from that moment everything became better and he could _breathe._

But not this time.

This time he knew that it would end as soon as he moved. A single touch, a single _breath_ and the cruel dream would be shattered.

And Sam would take in every bit of his brother until that happened, not even caring how hard he collapsed after Dean was gone again.

So he sat. Still. Pale. Breathless.

He could feel his heart beating a thunder in the stillness around him, his stuttering breaths shattering the gentle oxygen molecules floating about. Oxygen he was sure had been missing until now.

He could hear Dean's harsh breaths now, as he looked up and slowly sat up. Looking up at the sky and the far distance. The trees, the dry shrubs, the broken trees. Things that they had never before given a second glance.

Things that he had probably thought he would never get to see again.

Sam watched, eyes burning as he blinked away the stupid tears hindering his sight, as Dean turned slowly, stilling abruptly, every muscle going tense as he caught sight of something.

Sam roughly followed his gaze and couldn't help the snort that escaped him as he found the Impala.

Baby. Dean's Baby.

The car seemed to wink at them from the distance.

He looked back at Dean again, watching as confusion, joy, fear, love flitted through his face.

How many times had he prayed to see those emotions, that face, that stance just one more time? How many times had he reached towards their pictures, only to turn away because he didn't think he would be able to look at a photo knowing he won't see the real thing again?

Now he revelled in the sight, the vision, whatever the fuck his mind had cooked up. To cope? To look at one last time? To remember? To move on? To hope? It didn't matter.

He would take whatever he could get.

A sudden sound near his hip startled him and without meaning to, he took his eyes off Dean and snapped them towards the ground near him.

It was the damned whiskey bottle. Tipped over and lying on a stone. Which must have been the sound. Precious amber liquid dripping out of the opening.

Sam didn't give a shit.

Mentally spitting a curse at having such a stupid thing distract him, he turned back towards his brother.

His breath hitched and came to a stop as he found green eyes full of ... _everything ..._ looking back at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG! Saturn by Sleeping At Last came on my playlist while I was writing a part of the last few sentences! I'm an emotional mess. How appropriate, though! I put in a line from the song in it too. lol. Not the exact line, but something like it.
> 
> Alright, I'll shut up now. Thank you so much to all those who read and reviewed and added it to their favourites and follows.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Sam together! At last! Well, kinda ... but not too much time together yet. Sorry. I hope it's good lol.
> 
> Reviews are love, my little cherry pies!

Hunters didn't often have a road paved with roses. If they didn't die today, they were good. The shit they saw would have other people running for their lives. Messed up nightmares attacking them and making them bleed? Who wouldn't want to run?

And there's not much creatures or supernatural beings that would surprise them.

Nothing surprised Sam anymore. Shocked him, disgusted him, scared him? Hell, yeah. But surprises were what had been forgotten behind in a motel room on a Christmas night when he was 8 years old.

What did amaze him was not the unexplainable. But clear cut facts that were proven time and time again. Things that were too incredible to behold but still existed.

Like now, for instance.

Dean.

Of course, he had long debated the fact that Dean himself was born of a laboratory experiment that included all the best genes of every best human on the planet. While it was not true, it wouldn't have surprised Sam even if it had been.

His brother had raised him, held him, loved him, cared for him, taught him, fed him, been there for him, he had just been ... _Dean._ He was simply Sam's everything, no matter how many times he had tried to add other people in his life and tried to run away from the burden that he was to his big brother.

Even if it meant hurting him. Even if it meant hurting himself.

His brother who had breathed, lived and died for him.

Dean.

His brother who now stood there, right in front of him, within arm's reach, after four months. Four months of cloying darkness that ate away at Sam like a parasite feeding on grief and despair. And each time it fed, the grief and despair had doubled until it was all that Sam could feel. Until he had forgotten to do anything but survive.

Because he had promised.

But it wasn't real. This ... this vision. It was just that. False hopes and hopeless dreams.

Everything he had wished for, dreamed of.

It wasn't real.

_And yet ..._

Sam knew that the human mind was fascinating. Had rambled on stuff he had learnt in Biology class to an amused looking Dean. Knew the capacity it held to conjure up random shit depending on what the person was thinking and how he was feeling.

He knew all that. Had even been drugged and hallucinating a couple of times. Dean had told him how real the Djinn's wishes had been.

_And yet ..._

_"You boys ... you know what the other is thinking just by lookin' into each other's eyes, like some voodoo psychic crap or something. I remember when you were kids and much cuter how the two of ya seemed to know just what to say or do even when yer idjit father didn't."_

Bobby's words came to his mind suddenly. At that time, they had both rolled their eyes and dodged Bobby's dishrag and mutterings of "damn idjits". But Sam had subconsciously agreed and he knew Dean had too.

Reading other people came with the job description.

But reading each other? That came as natural as breathing. Even when they did their best to hide whatever discomfort or hurt or secret by correcting their body language and pretending to act normal. All it took was one look into the other's eyes and that would be it.

It would be enough.

And now, looking at Hallucination Dean's eyes, Sam was reminded of the million times when he had looked into his brother's eyes and had gotten pages upon pages of what was on Dean's mind.

Not even the incredible human brain would go into all that trouble just to fake an impression of his long gone brother.

_Right?_

_Unless ..._

"Sam?"

Sam. It was strange how one word, his _own_ name, could make his heart miss a beat, choke the air out of his lungs and render him ... numb.

Or maybe he was just feeling too much.

Dean's eyes. His voice. Just Dean.

He ... was he ... _him?_ Because Sam knew that even as he had expected Dean to disappear any second he didn't know if he would survive if he actually did.

He said as much. Or at least thought he did.

"I - can't - again - I - " He choked off, his words barely a whisper, as he continued to stay slumped against the tree.

He couldn't take his eyes off of Dean. A mirage? A visage? Fake? _Real?_

He could see the emotions roller coasting in his brother's eyes and he wondered if it was reflected in his own.

_HappinessGriefHopeDespairJoyProtectivenessWorryHappiness_

Sam also saw the moment when everything became just _Sam._ He had seen that look oh so many times in those eyes. When every emotion was forgotten until only a laser like focus on Sam remained.

He'd missed it. Missed everything. Everything that he had taken for granted and everything he had treasured.

He watched with a limp, desperate expression as a worried big brother, _Dean,_ stumbled the couple of feet towards him and crashed to his knees beside Sam.

Sam's mind roared with thoughts of miracles and dangers and deals and hopes and prayers unanswered, sandwiched between thoughts of dreams and nightmares and zombies and the human brain.

Until all of it just became ... _Dean_ , as he was wrapped within arms that had held him safe since the day he was born.

The world narrowed into the smell of sweat and mud and _Dean._ Not that the last four months had been any different.

_No ... he wouldn't think about that now. Dean could disappear. No, Dean was here._

_Forget about the past months._

_Forget ..._

_Apologize ..._

Sam could feel himself becoming lightheaded as he wheezed in air that trickled slower and slower down his windpipe.

He felt Dean begin to pull back urgently but all the grief and fear came rolling out of him in a pathetic whine, ending with a sob and he clutched Dean tighter. In another world and time, he might have been embarrassed of the tears and the tightness and desperation of his grip. But right now, clutching his big brother was akin to holding on to a lifeline.

_Let go ..._

_"Is that what you want me to do, Dean? Just let you go?"_

Months, years, eons ago it seemed and though Sam had never let go, he might as well have. Because Dean had slipped through his fingers, in front of his very eyes.

Not this time. Not _ever_ again.

He wouldn't let go.

"Sammy ... " Dean whispered into his hair and Sam shattered.

Words and tears chased each other until he was out of energy and out of breath, pouring apologies and insults and pleas.

Even as his heart became a bit lighter and he felt like he could breathe, _finally,_ he never made a move to let go. Neither did Dean.

And in the middle of nowhere, Sam's home for four months, Dean Winchester held onto Sam and rocked his broken little brother, whispering promises and apologies.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A switch in POV, my dear people. Just 'cause. Lol. Although it might change in between. Who knows.

Dean had once read somewhere that "Time healed everything". He was actually pretty certain that it was a saying among people. But he had come across it just that one time.

And good thing too. Because if he had had read it again or God forbid, heard it from someone, he was sure that he would have taken a swing at them.

After all, he had pretty much screeched "Bullshit!" and flipped the page so fast, it had been torn half out of the magazine he was reading. He had looked up then to see Sam regarding him with a reluctant bitch face bordering on amusement, which had been all wrapped up prettily in what Dean called the I'm-nerding-out-and-not-currently-here look. It was a special skill of Sam's.

He had shaken his head as the little geek had turned back to whatever book _he_ had been reading, no doubt some Freudian shit or those huge tomes buried beneath ages of dirt that only Sam managed to dig out. Hopefully, it had less shit in it than whatever Dean had just read.

Not a chance, Dean had thought a moment later, a grin forming on his face, as he took in the image of Paris Hilton sprawled across the page, a thin tear stopping just short of her gorgeously tousled hair.

The previous page was all but forgotten as Dean had given all his eyes and brain to the beauty of Hilton.

Point was, Dean had always known that the time healing thing was bullshit. Mom's death had been burned so deeply in his being that it would probably still be there if he took a knock to the head and became an amnesiac. Sam probably still dreamt of Jess's death. Their Dad's departure had given them both their own shares of nightmares, each wallowing in guilt so different and all the more painful.

Time didn't heal. It allowed the scab to form and then a scar the size of Europe to follow. And the pain remained everyday, no matter how insignificant of a task they were doing. No matter how hard they tried forgetting.

The grief often spelled the end of some people. But even as hard headed as the brothers were and even as deep as their heads were up in their asses half the time, the Winchesters continued to _live_. They leant on each other so badly that it wasn't believable that they had a pair of legs each.

Metaphorically, of course. Unless they were injured on a hunt and ... well, that was a different story for a different time.

Dean knew that people didn't heal, didn't forget. They went on with their lives, while half their soul remained in the past.

Dean knew what that felt like. Knew that the couple of days spent staring at Sam's corpse in Cold Oak took first place. Over watching their home burn and their mom with it. Over having to burn their dad's body. Over the guilt that spent jagged knives through his heart each minute he spent awake or sober, as the reel of his father selling his soul for him played over and over and _over_ in his head.

His dad's death hadn't so much as made him grieve as it had made him hate himself.

Sam had tried to help, even if he couldn't seem to say anything except look at him with tear filled eyes that seemed to plead and scream all at the same time. He had let Dean choose the hunts, hadn't argued over the showers, had brought him coffee every morning ... just little things that was more Winchester than _Sammy._

And it had made Dean _livid._

Because he was not an invalid and he wanted Sam to forget that day and go on as normal. As normal as their job allowed.

Of course, he couldn't say all this without opening the floodgates for a chick-flick moment just waiting to be released behind Sam's lips. So he had grunted his thanks and continued to live as if that moment had never happened. Continued to throw himself into hunts wildly, running himself ragged and bloody.

Even as the had guilt continued to eat him.

The Winchester way. The _Dean Winchester_ way.

Until of course, the _Sam Winchester_ way interjected, like it always did. In that dramatic fashion of Sam's, like always. In the way that made Dean come close to having a heart attack and looking into stores for hair dyes to be prepared for the early grey hairs to come. All because of a certain little brother.

Like always.

It began with a simple hunt and ended with Sam forcing Dean out of the way of the fugly they had been hunting. It had ended with Sam smashing onto the far wall, the entire left side of him coming into painful contact with it, that Dean had sworn the floorboards shook.

It had ended with Dean, after ripping into the being with every ounce of rage and worry he had possessed, turning around and coming face to face with a swaying Sam.

It had ended with Dean catching Sam as his legs gave out and Sam gasping out a thin _I can live without Jess ... and da-dad. But I - I can't live_ wi _\- without you._

Afterwards, in the hospital, there had been no hugs or _I'm glad you're alive_ s. Because Winchesters didn't do that unless one of them were dying. And though Dean had thought Sam _was_ dying, it had just been lots of internal bleeding and a severe concussion.

A vacation, compared to various other hunts they had faced.

Not that it stopped Dean from worrying.

Not to say that it didn't stop Dean from wanting to tear Sam a new one. But he sufficed that it was enough to show how much he hated Sam by stuffing him full of pain pills and holding him through fever dreams in a nasty motel room as infection had taken place.

And in future hunts, if Dean had gone back to his usual way of hunting, careful planning and precise stealth, well, who's to say that it had anything to do with anything.

And if the nightmares of his father burning in hell had been reduced to a trickle, who's to say that Sam had anything to do with making sure that Dean knew that there was something right here for him and that his father's deal wasn't in vain.

That the deal wasn't just for Dean.

Moments like this ... these were the times when Dean was reminded how much his brother meant to him. How much they meant to each other. Moments where they were reminded painfully just how close they had come to losing the other.

So, yeah, they leant on each other too much. But it didn't matter if they were unhealthily co-dependent. The rest of the world could go stick their opinions up their asses.

They were all they had. And they weren't planning on being alone anytime soon.

Or, you know, _ever._

Until _that_ day. When the world had been ripped from his feet and he had been forced by the universe to be _alone._ The last Winchester standing. Fuck the stuff they had done for the world. This was the thanks they got. To hell with the anonymous saving people, hunting things.

It was all give, give, give until there was nothing more to give.

Fuck yes. That was what Dean would do. He would give everything he had. His life, his time, his memories, his advice, his love. Wasn't that what he had given Sam all these years?

_What difference did it make if he added Soul to the mix?_

_"Sam. Your brother can't carry you all the way home." "De is home."_

_"You are the bestest big brother in_ _de whole earth."_

"You're _my brother. And I would die for you."_

_"Thank you, man. For everything."_

_"Thanks, Dean. Dad would never have let us do this."_

_"Sammy, what's your favourite hobby?" "Stargazing with crap sodas and awesome big brothers!"_

_"Dean! Didja know dat dino-sau-rus were bigger than houses?"_

_"You're batman!"_

_"Say dada." "D - Dee"_

_"DEAN!"_

_Sam. Sammy._

And Dean knew that one year and a soul to have his brother back was nothing compared to all that Sam had given him. Every bit of laughter and happiness and light in his life had come from one floppy haired, dimpled, soulful eyed kid.

And Dean owed him that and so much more. He owed him so much more than he could possibly give.

And in just _knowing_ that, he had saved Sam and brought his little brother's world crashing down.

So, no. Time didn't do shit. Not when he still had nightmares of a cold body in Cold Oak. Not when he still dreamed of fire swallowing everything he loved.

Not when he had watched Sam slowly become less human, more machine and everything else Not-Sam, trying to find Dean a way out. Not when he had watched Sam fade surely in front of his very eyes, smiling mechanically, laughing occasionally in a tone that didn't reach his eyes, eating only when Dean practically force fed him, sleeping rarely only to wake up _screaming_ for Dean.

Not when there was a gaunt, shell of a kid, with fevered skin and ragged alcohol stained breaths and blood stained clothes and pleading wimpers rolling out of chapped lips, lying limply in his arms, clutching painfully tight at Dean's clothes like it was the only thing he could even dream of doing. Like it was the only thing he _had_ dreamed of doing.

Not when Dean realized that he had to save Sam all over again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um ... oops? This got faaaar out of hand lmao. I wanted to write Dean taking care of Sam from his POV, yes. But who knew Dean had so much on his mind? Well, we know ... but that's beside the point heh.
> 
> Anyways, I'm gonna shut up now. At least the brothers are together, right?
> 
> Review, my lovelies and you will get more pain filled chapters as a gift. Fair exchange, isn't it?


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here I am, with some brotherly moments ... I think? There's not much dialogue ... so is it truly a Bro-Mo? A BM? My definition of a Bowel Movement scene needs work. Did I say Bowel Movement? Lol.
> 
> I talk when I'm nervous. Sue me. I'm like Charlie. But hey, I'm nervous about this chapter. I feel like there's something missing and I don't know what it is.
> 
> BUT! I'm gonna keep writing. 'cause I am enjoying writing this. Gimme all the suggestions and opinions you have.

_He was real._

_Real._

_His brother._

_Dean was real._

_RealRealRealRealReal ..._

Sam didn't know if he was croaking it out loud or if it was whirling around inside his head. But it was the only thing he could think of. He didn't even know if he was still trying to make himself believe it or if he already did.

He was in shock. In pain. Numb. Sick. Hot. Then cold.

At least, he thought he was. Because as much as training and facts shot across his brain spitting out stuff like _fever shock alcohol poi - denial_ _grief,_ he couldn't bring himself to pay attention.

It was rather like knowing a flood was coming and even watching it rush towards him. But from the safety of his home, automatically feeling safer there.

He knew it was only a matter of a few seconds, minutes, before it rolled in and he was swept away into unconsciousness or that half awake state that he seemed constantly suspended in.

But he didn't care. Not now.

Not when he was actually _home._

People always have a false sense of security when they are inside their homes. Like locking their doors and turning on the security system would keep whatever monster or human out. Like flimsy wooden doors would do shit. Like their windows weren't breakable.

Sam had always scoffed at that thought, even as he had sought to make a home of his own. But _that_ one had been nothing more than a shelter. Jess had been the love of his life and _Sam_ was the one who vowed to keep her safe. He had learnt enough to know that a roof and four walls protected people from nothing but the sun and the rain.

False sense of security.

But Sam's real home? There was nothing false about that.

Because he knew that if he was ever safe in this godforsaken world, it was because of Dean. _With_ Dean. He had known that since he had first recognized the new colours and scents of the world.

Hell, he probably even knew subconsciously ever since the moment he was born.

And when the flood rolled in, he knew Dean would keep him afloat.

"Sammy ..."

Sam slumped even more into his brother's chest, which was a feat in and of itself. But Dean did nothing to push him away. He gathered Sam impossibly closer but brought one hand towards his brother's chin and gently tilted his face upwards to get his first, proper look at him.

Dean had seen every version of Sam and then some. He had watched his kid get beaten up, clawed, shot, drugged, exhausted with worry, unconscious, tired, bloody, sleep deprived, angry, vengeful, sad, empty and so so much more.

But somehow, even though the world had given nothing but pain to the Winchesters, Sam had always been the little spark of light and hope in their family. He was the one who kept them fighting. Made them laugh, smile, love, hope, have fun, hell, even dance and sing. Sam was _everything._

Dean had seen every version of Sam and more.

He would pride himself in knowing all there was to about his little brother and yet learn a new thing everyday.

Dean _knew_ Sam. And he knew what it was going to do to him when Dean went to hell.

_Dean fucking knew his Sammy._

He knew that he would drive himself crazy trying to bring Dean back. Would barely eat, barely sleep and remain vengeful and drown himself in hunts. Pester Bobby every step of the way driving the old man mad too.

Dean finally _looked_ at Sam.

And everything he knew ... thought he knew about Sam, came crashing down around him and shattered into a billion pieces.

_Dean Winchester knew fuck all about his little brother._

Because this? This wasn't the Sammy he knew.

This was his little brother, _broken_ and looking like he was a step away from death.

This was the Sam that Dean had left behind.

Sam's eyes were dull and yet sparked with fresh tears that overflowed every few seconds. His whites were barely visible as the veins ran so red. His face was gaunt and grey except for the slowly blooming fever spots that struggled to regain some colour. There was blood and dirt, dried and crusted that were at least a week old, give or take a couple of days. His hair, that Dean had never failed to tease about, were a few centimetres longer than before and it stuck to Sam's head in wet clumps. There was sweat, blood and dirt encrusted into the strands as they lay limp, lacking any lustre or bounciness that Sam usually spent ages working into it.

He was burning hot, even as shivers wracked his painfully thin frame. His clothes (Dean's own, Dean realized) were tattered in some places and bloody in others. _Oh God, the blood._ God knew how much of it Sam had lost.

The worst was his eyes, unavoidably. Because the gaze that held on so tightly onto his' was pure desperation and disbelief and fear that it left no space for hope.

He looked seconds away from collapsing into himself. And Dean didn't know how long he had looked like that.

 _Since the day you left him,_ a traitorous voice spoke in the back of his head.

Dean ignored it even as a pang of familiar guilt went through him. The guilt that chased around the relief over and over in his head. Because as much as seeing Sam like this was his worst nightmare, it still ranked below the time when Sam had _died_ in his arms that night in that cursed Cold Oak.

And Dean could never bring himself to regret the deal. Even as it killed him. Both metaphorically and literally.

And killed Sam too, just in a less literal and less painful way than the last time.

Or so Dean had thought.

He ran his hand through Sam's greasy hair, frowning at the dampness he found in them, cradling his brother's head and gently squeezing the back of his neck. It seemed such a long time ago.

And it was.

It had been too long.

He couldn't remember hell. He knew it was only a matter of time before whatever amnesia he had contracted wore off. Hello, Winchester Luck. For now, he wouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth. Not when there was a little brother to be taken care of.

But the one thing he remembered feeling, the emotion penetrating through the huge hole in his memory, was missing his little brother. Leaving Sam alone was the one thing he had regretted and feared.

And here he was, fears founded.

His attention focused back on Sam as he saw a ghost of a smile and heard a barely there sigh.

_"It's okay, Sammy. The nightmares won't get you." Fingers gently cradling his head, a slight pressure on his neck._

_"I know your greatest fear, Sammy. It's a pair of scissors." "Cut it out, Dean." "Oh, I want to."_

_"I'm so so sorry, little brother. But I'm here, you got that? You gotta grieve and breathe, Sammy. It's what Jess would have wanted." Fingers tangling in his hair as Sam rested against Dean's shoulder._

_"Just because you love fairytales doesn't mean you gotta become a princess, sasquatch."_

_"We'll be okay. It's gonna be okay, Sam." Fingers holding onto his head tightly as they clutched each other, the only Winchesters standing._

_A hand carding through his hair, a hand at the back of his neck. A warmth in the coldcoldcold ..._

Sam had missed that. Missed Dean's teasing. His pretence that he hated Sam's hair when they both knew that it was a source of comfort for the younger brother. And a way to comfort for Dean.

It was a unspoken gesture of love and affection in the Winchester world where just hugs wouldn't suffice. Where a a hand at his neck spoke as if Dean was saying _I'm here, not going anywhere, as long as you need._

Yeah. Sam had missed that. Along with a couple million things that went with the package deal that was Dean Winchester.

He had missed his big brother.

But right now, Dean was here. And as much as Sam still harboured the fear that once he closed his eyes, Dean would disappear, Sam smiled. He sighed as the feeling of _home_ washed over him and he finally let go.

He let go of the fears and the insecurities and the sorrow and the grief and the rage and the panic. He let go of everything he thought he needed to feel in order to give him enough strength to wake up everyday. He let go of everything that wanted him to give up.

He let go as he had been able to only around Dean.

And when the exhaustion and relief and fever won out, the flood rolled in, drowning him.

He heard Dean calling out to him as he went under and knew that Dean would save him.

Like always.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you think? Was it shit or was it shit? AAAAHHHHH review and let me know.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leave a review or a kudos, mon friends!

Having a little brother meant experiencing too many heart stopping moments. Especially if said little brother was one Sam Winchester. Frankly, Dean had resigned himself to the fact that if the hunt didn't kill him, worrying about Sam would.

Right now, he could practically feel his heart trying to break through his ribcage, thundering, just like it had that one night with Rachel Morrison.

Except, there was no pleasure coursing through his veins.

Just plain, good ol' fear.

Even as he had half expected Sam to disintegrate in his arms, his going limp in the matter of milliseconds with barely any warning sent Dean's blood pressure rocketing.

And Dean knew every sign of an About-to-Faint Sam. In every variation. Be it blood loss, exhaustion, inebriation or in one particular dreaded case, hunger.

But as he had discovered minutes earlier, this was New Sam. A little brother whom Dean wasn't looking forward to learning about. So afraid of what he might find if he tried to.

In all his relatively short life, Dean had always marvelled at the new quirks he could discover everyday in his little brother. He had them all stored in his very own Sammy box in his head. Along with a million other memories that Sam was too young to remember and memories that they both cherished.

He had taken it all in stride because they were all what made him his _Sammy._ He had learnt to deal with his moods, when to give him space and when to make him talk.

Except now ... this was a Sam he had no idea how to deal with. This was a Sam who still wasn't sure if Dean was alive or not. This was a Sam that had been truly alone for the first time in his life. This was a Sam that had kept trying to save Dean or at least avenge him and had driven himself halfway to death in the process.

This was a Sam Dean wasn't sure he could help.

At least, not completely.

For the first time in his life, Dean Winchester felt helpless in a situation concerning his little brother.

And that scared him more than he cared to admit.

But if there was one thing he had learnt in all his years of taking care of Sam, it was to adapt. To go with the flow and to not give up. To move past mistakes and errors.

Because there would be a time when he struck gold and Sam would be alright.

Because Dean would be _pissed_ if he lost Sam before whupping his ass for whatever he had done to bring him back from hell.

Because Dean would spend a millenia in hell if it meant that Sam would live.

"Sam?" Dean called, hoping for a response but bracing for the silence that might answer him.

The silence answered him.

Dean sighed before sweeping strands of hair off Sam's forehead as it lay half hidden against his shoulder. Sam didn't even twitch.

"What am I supposed to do with you, Sammy?" He breathed, choking on tears that suddenly flooded his eyes. "I'm so sorry, kiddo. So so sorry. I just - I never-" He broke off, sighing harshly as he swallowed forth the words that were milling to pour forth.

There would be a time for that. When Sam was well and aware enough to hear them and hopefully forgive Dean.

Right now, there was a long road ahead for Sam to heal and Dean to play doctor.

For Dean to play big brother.

He carefully adjusted his grip on his limp brother, slowly lowering him until his head lay cradled on the crook of Dean's elbow. He one handedly removed his jacket, which was surprisingly not that dirty, switching the hands supporting the unresponsive Sam before laying him carefully on the ground, head pillowed on the jacket.

Every move Dean made, he was certain Sam would shatter. Every move he made to make sure his brother was as comfortable as he could be, he was reminded of a year old Sam, looking up at him as he held a milk bottle to his tiny lips.

_"He won't break, Dean." "But daddy, he is so tiny!"_

_"Look dad! Sammy's holdin' my finger!"_

_"Ssh, Sammy. 's alright. I'm gonna take care of you, kiddo."_

Sam was always Dean's baby brother. And no matter what Sam said, Dean would never stop treating him as such.

And no matter what Sam felt, Dean had never before thought of Sam anything less than the best partner.

Sam was the only one who Dean trusted to have his back.

Because Sam was the only one who had _never_ let Dean down.

Truth was, even when Sam employed moves that would put even the great John Winchester to shame, in order to watch Dean's back, he had never stopped being Dean's little brother. Even as Dean fought whatever monster of the week they were dealing with, he had always kept an eye on Sam.

Dean was both grateful and terrified with the knowledge that Sam did the same for him.

Would never stop being so.

He wondered how long he had until Sam inevitably returned to the land of consciousness. He had a couple of minutes, at least.

Well, he hoped.

Half of him wanted Sam to remain blissfully unaware while Dean just held him close and chased away all the nightmares and doubts and fevers and aches. The other half, the selfish part of him that wanted a reassurance, needed Sam to spring awake _right fucking now_ so Dean could breathe a bit easier.

He ran his hands carefully down Sam's torso and limbs, taking into account the various scratches, lacerations, unhealed bruises and abrasions literally _littering_ Sam's body. By the time he had looked beneath all the ridiculous hair for any suspicious lumps, coming up with only a long sealed cut near the nape of his neck, Dean was almost vibrating with rage and raw concern.

The mere thought of the bastards that had done this to Sam was enough to make Dean want to tear into the next evil being they came across. But hey, what's new there?

But not now.

Now was the time for Dean Winchester : Awesome Big Brother. Dean Winchester : The hunter, could wait.

Sam always came first. And again, what else was new?

Dean smirked to himself at that thought and laid the back of his hand against Sam's cheek and neck, gauging the temperature, to determine the amount of danger they were in.

Sam was warm, but not alarmingly so. At least, not yet. It was only a matter of time before Sam's temperature skyrocketed. Which depended upon Sam.

And going by the grey complexion and dramatically slimmed figure of his brother, Dean knew that the fever would raise its ugly head sooner than later. Sam was one tough son of a bitch. Dean would know, after all. But not even a Winchester escaped illnesses caused by stuff they could not even see with their bare eyes.

It didn't mean that Dean wouldn't be ready, though. Awesome being part of the job description and all.

Steeling himself with a slight shake of his head, he gently carded his hand through Sam's hair, comforting and calling to him at the same time. The age old method of calming Sam still present within him as deep as a muscle memory.

That was what happened when Sam took up the whole of Dean's most important muscle, the older brother thought to himself with a slight smile.

Snorting slightly to himself at the mega chick flick moment he was having within himself, Dean leaned in closer to Sam laying a hand on the side of his neck, another touch to ground both himself and the man lying on the ground before him.

He squeezed his neck slightly, rubbing a thumb back and forth on Sam's forehead, almost unconsciously, as he stared at closed blue-purplish eyelids.

"Sammy ... open your eyes, little bro. Not really an apt welcome back, what with you passing out two minutes after I come back from downstairs." Dean's voice was rougher than usual, whether due to disuse or too much use, he didn't know. He chose to go with the former, not wanting to go into the implications of the latter.

He shuddered involuntarily. As much as he wanted to know the whats and the hows of the past - however long - and the past few minutes, he was also somewhat okay with never knowing.

And if Sam was somehow involved in the rescue ... and right now it seemed to be the only answer available ... Dean didn't know what he would do.

But right now, all he wanted was for Sam to be alright. For him to wake up.

Which he wasn't too keen on doing it seemed, as Sam continued to lay frighteningly still except for the rise and fall of his chest.

Dean's worry spiked up a notch.

"Sam? Sammy, wake up dude." He slightly tapped one warm cheek before snaking a hand under Sam's jacket, _Dean's leather jacket,_ to briskly rub his chest. Hard. God knew how many painful wounds he was irritating.

" _Sammy ..._ Come on, man. Open your eyes. _Please?_ " Dean slowed his rubbing, as he sensed movement. A wince? A whine? Or Dean's imagination?

He resorted to gently patting Sam's cheek, not willing to cause anymore pain.

And this time there was certainly a slight groan. Followed by the familiar furrow of Sam's brows. All signs of a waking up Sam.

Dean's face broke into a huge grin and he cupped Sam's chin, tilting it so that he could look into those hazel eyes when Sam inevitably opened them.

Which would happen right ... about ...

... now.

Almost in slow motion, Sam's eyes fluttered open.

His unfocused gaze roved uncertainly over Dean's face and the sky and the trees around them before finally settling on the figure towering over him.

Dean rubbed a calloused finger over Sam's cheek as he looked into Sam's eyes, trying to find a trace of recognition.

"Sammy, you with me?" Dean asked, meeting Sam's gaze and holding it, and being careful to pitch his tone low and soothing. He still remembered the time when Sam had full on _flinched_ back from him, when he had once snapped at a disoriented Sam.

Not a look he ever wanted directed at him ever again.

"De'?" Sam's voice was barely a whisper, but Dean heard it, attuned as he was to Sam's voice.

His grin widened. "The one and only, Sammy."

"'m still dreamin'" Sam mumbled, eyes fluttering and Dean could just see the flash of tears pooling in them before they completely closed.

"Hey, hey! No no no, Sam! Sammy, open your eyes. Focus on me. I swear you're not dreaming, little brother. Just open your eyes."

The gentle coaxing worked, just like Dean knew it would. Because it wasn't in Sam to ignore his big brother. Even when he had blocked out the world, dad and everything else, Dean's voice had never failed to reach him.

Hazel irises peeked out at Dean again.

"That's it, Sammy. Doin' good. Just - eyes on me, alright?"

"Dean?"

"That's right, Sammy. It's me. I'm real. I'm gonna take care of you, okay? We're gonna crash at the nearest motel and you're gonna rest up before your noggin combusts. You hear me?"

Sam didn't respond. His slightly hazy eyes were fixed upon Dean's with not a small amount of awe.

And a whole lot of yearning.

And Dean didn't know how to react to that.

So he did what he always did. He adapted.

"Hey, I'm not going anywhere. Alright? I'm right here. Trust me, Sammy." He smiled sadly at the disbelieving look on Sam's face and fought the sudden urge to cry.

"Let's get you up, whatdya say?"

Not waiting for an answer, he wrangled a hand under Sam's shoulder and slowly sat him up. Sam swayed, face paling several shades, mouth slightly open as he strained to breathe evenly.

"Hey, you with me?"

Sam's eyes had never left Dean's.

Now his expression changed to one of confusion. But he breathed out a soft "Mhmm". Dean would take what he could get.

Dean chuckled at the typical 'tired Sam' response. As much as the geek was an atrociously early riser, he plainly refused to cooperate when waken up before he was ready.

_I missed you so much, Sammy._

"Good. What say we go home?"


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe a one shot turned into a nightmare of an angstfest. Lol, but I love writing it.
> 
> Oh and -
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING : For low self esteem issues.
> 
> Review, darlings. And I'll send you cookies. Just kidding. I'll give you updates, though XD

Sam knew what awaited him when he opened his eyes.

He had spent long days after Stanford taking in his surroundings through sound, before he could bear to open his eyes. Dean had always been there, then. Puttering around loudly and humming to let Sam know that he wasn't alone.

_I'm not going anywhere, Sammy._

Chick flick moments had without even a word spoken.

Dean had always been there.

Until he wasn't.

Until Sam feared waking up as much as he feared going to sleep.

Sam knew what awaited him in the land of consciousness.

 _Nothing_.

And that scared Sam more than fire, death, demons could.

He would spend forever in the darkness if it meant that he could stay away from the light. The emptiness was far better. Numbness was better than the pain. He didn't care if it made him less human, more robot.

He would take numb.

And when that didn't work, he would _make_ himself numb.

All the hustled pool money (broken bones and all) that went into his alcohol collection, was proof of that.

So, yeah, forgive him if he wasn't in a 'rise and shine' mood.

Except ...

Except there was some _asshole_ who wanted a punch to his face, apparently. He would very much not like to open his eyes, thank you very much.

He opened his mouth to tell whatever bastard who had found him passed out who knows where to _fuck the hell off_ and stopped abruptly when only a pathetic groan emerged from his lips.

Just like that, every sense came into stark focus.

The ground was hard but his head was lying on something ... soft? And the voice was oddly calming even though he couldn't catch the words. He frowned.

Maybe touch alone wouldn't be enough this time.

And with rising dread at having to face the world, Sam blinked his eyes open, sight blurred alarmingly as he struggled to make sense of the shaky image before him. Dark blur outlined by green and blue.

Somehow he knew the answer lay in the dark blur that seemed about to fall on him.

Only then did he feel the other sensations that went with the eyes and he realized why he felt so calm. There was a hand cupping his chin and another soothing over his head and neck. And that voice ...

He could place it now and he wondered why it had taken so long for him to figure it out.

Because clearly the touch and voice belonged to the person who was no longer here.

He couldn't stop the questioning "De'" that escaped him, though.

"The one and only, Sammy."

That went straight to his heart, beats skipping faster until he could feel it trying to gallop in his throat. That voice that had penetrated through and released him from the darkest nightmares and woke him up even when he was a baby. That voice never failed to reach him.

And yet ... he had been screwed with enough times to not trust any damn thing his brain concocted.

Sam Winchester knew about hope. Knew about the light at the end of the tunnel and putting forth all your efforts towards it.

Only to have it sputter and go out, leaving him with a pit so dark and so deep that he knew he would be dead even before he hit the bottom.

He knew what that felt like and he would rather be tortured than live through it yet again.

So, no. He wasn't falling for that again.

He wasn't falling ever again.

That didn't mean that not taking the leap didn't hurt. It hurt like a bitch.

Because after all the hopes that had been smashed, he could not help but hold on to the sliver of it that still glowed. That he lit up everyday.

The flame that read Dean all over it. The fuel to his mind, body, soul and heart. If he could not have Dean - until he could have Dean - he would hold onto the memories of his big brother.

That's what Dean would have wanted and even if Sam was so goddamned tired, he could never break a promise to Dean.

"'m still dreamin'"

And he was. It hurt to think and it hurt more to say it out loud. But it was the only way he could ground himself and not jump straight into Crazyville.

He could feel the tears burning even through his closed lids.

_Everything. Fucking. Hurt._

"Hey, hey! No no no, Sam! Sammy, open your eyes. Focus on me. I swear you're not dreaming, little brother. Just open your eyes."

Dean had always had too many rules for Sam. _Stay close to me, don't wander off, pick up the phone when I call you, check in every hour, answer when I call your name ..._

_"Sammy, hold my hand! I know you are five and a quarter now, but you're not old enough."_

_"Sam, when I tell you to answer the phone, you goddamn answer your fucking phone no matter what bitch fit you're throwing. You understand? Fuck, Sam! If you ever do that - Just ... just promise me you won't do that again."_

_"Sam! Sammy! Answer me! You better have a good reason for ign - oh shit! Sam! Hey, hey, hey! I'm here. Let's get that bleeding stopped, huh? Stay with me, Sam. I gotcha, little brother."_

And except for that one time, when he faced Dean's full wrath for the first time ever, Sam had never consciously ignored his brother. It was an instinct embedded deep within him. Just like ducking down quickly while hunting if the occasion called for it. Like not freezing in the face of a fugly.

Like trusting Dean even before trusting himself.

So he did.

Responded. Trusted.

His eyes fluttered open even before he could send the message to his mushy brain.

"That's it, Sammy. Doin' good. Just - eyes on me, alright?"

"Dean?"

It was a whisper of hope and disbelief. God, he wished it was real. Wished he had saved Dean. Wished he had stopped Dean from making his deal. Wished he had never been foolish enough to be demon-transported to Cold Oak.

Wished he hadn't been so much of a burden that Dean had to bear, _watch out for Sammy,_ ingrained into a soldier's brain.

Wished he wasn't so literally impure with _demon blood_ running in his veins. _Cut the veins open and watch them flow out until every fucked up cell shriveled and died._

_Wished he hadn't been born._

"That's right, Sammy. It's me. I'm real. I'm gonna take care of you, okay? We're gonna crash at the nearest motel and you're gonna rest up before your noggin combusts. You hear me?"

Wished that Dean was alive.

Every single day.

But now he was. Or at least, he looked it.

Dean would take care of him.

_If he was alive._

... and now he was here.

And sounded so much like Dean that it hurt so bad.

_... and as much as his heart hurt, it seemed to mend at the same time._

_Waves crashing. Fake Dean. Real Dean. Fake Dean. Real Dean._

Until Sam could focus on nothing. And everything. Dean was right there. Not disappearing. And his head hurt and so did his body. But Dean would make them all go away.

Wouldn't he?

He was dizzy. Whether from the hangover or the fever burning in him, he didn't know. Burning everything away. Like mom, like Jess, _like Dean._

Winchesters and fire. Of all the enemies they had fought, fire, non-supernatural, was the one thing they could never defeat.

And it was burning Sam too, now.

_Good. He had it coming._

What was he thinking about again?

Dean.

Of course.

There was a Dean. One that seemed to be talking even now.

But Sam hadn't answered Dean. He always had to answer Dean. Dean would be pissed.

Or maybe it was alright if Sam kept his mouth shut when he was within Dean's sights.

But even concussions and blood loss in Sam had never stopped Dean from waiting for an answer.

Did that mean that this was Fake Dean? A Dean that didn't know him properly?

Shapeshifter? No, Dean had risen from the ground. Resurrected.

Dean was speaking to him. He could see his mouth moving. Slower and faster and slower again, driving Sam more dizzy. Like that rollercoaster ride when he was seven. Dean had held him while Sam had puked his guts and brains out.

He wanted to puke out all the molecules and atoms and brain cells now.

Pretty sure that he needed brain cells for ... something.

And suddenly, the world tilted and Dean disappeared and the sky fell to meet him, trees curving towards him, blood rushing so fast he thought he could generate electricity.

Could people generate electricity from fast running blood? Boiling blood? Tainted, boiling blood?

Oxygen thinned and Sam tried to scream. Or breathe. He couldn't do either. But he could still feel air on his lungs.

That meant he was still alive, right?

He could hear Dean again. Not words. Just the voice. The one he had dreamt of and yearned for.

And he realized that he was still watching Dean. Like an invisible thread connecting eyeballs. Hadn't Dean disappeared for an instant?

Was this still an imagination? _God, please, no._

It was a question. He could feel the vibration from Dean's chest, through his arm that supported Sam's back, warming him.

He sighed a non-committal response. Felt Dean's chuckle warming him this time.

Like everything was alright. Like he hadn't just seen a failure of a little brother lying in an inebriated, stinking, weak puddle at his grave.

The lectures would come. Maybe Dean would disappear.

But for now, Sam would hold on to the whispered echo of 'home' from his brother's lips.

For now, Sam would be a little brother to a big brother who was miraculously here.

For now, he would be _Sammy._


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING : Food related issues. And disorders, I think. Although I didn't write Sam as actually having a disorder. But it might still be triggering.
> 
> Read and review, my lovelies. 
> 
> Thank you to all those who left a comment or a kudos! Much love <3

Sam had been a bitch to wrangle when he had reached the age of 18. Because the lanky teenager had sprouted sasquatch limbs that outgrew Dean's. Aside from the fact that Dean was disgruntled, to say the least, it was almost impossible to drag Sam back home much less carry him when he was in trouble.

And Sam got into trouble as often as politicians got into scandals.

Dean had always ranted on and off about Sam's growth spurt, much to the amusement of said little brother. They both knew that if circumstances asked for it, Dean would straight up bridal carry Sam even if it meant that Dean's limbs would fall off later.

The Winchester way. They had each other's backs when it actually counted.

Of course, in true brothers fashion, Dean would also tease him mercilessly about having to carry his princess ass to bed and any number of innappropriate jokes that would make Sam turn scarlet.

Right now, though, Dean would give anything to have sasquatch Sam back. Apart from the pasty, zonked out look Sam was sporting (Shock, Dean's brain interrupted) Sam had almost looked alright.

Well ... aside from said look, the fever, the injuries and a whole ass can of worms that was obviously rolling around in Sam's head. A can that Dean would soon have to pry open, if Sam didn't beat him to it, and eventually clean up the mess that would come of it.

All in a day's work of a big brother.

An awesome big brother, he corrected himself sarcastically, as he once again took in Sam's state.

He shook his head, pushing away the guilt and sadness that assaulted his senses.

_Later._

Yeah okay, Sam wasn't fine. Which Dean had established the moment he had laid eyes on him when he had miraculously risen from his grave. But the extent of it hadn't struck him hard enough until now.

Gone was the moose-man Dean had always thought was nothing short of a rare phenomenon. The fact that 'salad and green disgusting milkshakes' puppy boy could ever weigh so much more than 'greasy, junk guzzling' handsome dude should have been enough to gather scientists from across the country, Dean had always thought.

Now though, Sam was back to looking like a lanky teenager, except this was no awkward teen phase. This was a full grown man who had failed/forgotten/deliberately ignored taking care of himself. And none of those options gave Dean any sort of comfort.

He hadn't noticed it when he had held Sam in his arms. Too occupied with the sheer amount of pain emanating from his little brother. He hadn't noticed it when he had checked him for injuries. He hadn't noticed it when he had sat up a dazed Sam who didn't seem exactly … present.

He didn't notice it until he had gotten Sam standing, the kid's eyes closed, as he swayed back and forth, blood draining rapidly before his knees buckled. Of course, Dean had been expecting it. Had been bracing himself for the moment when he would have to practically carry his _heavy_ brother to the Impala.

Home.

And had blanched when he had found himself with an armful of little brother who seemed to weigh half of what Dean had been expecting.

Because this?

It was everything he had feared would happen and had hoped wouldn't.

Dean had struggled to keep Sam alive almost all his life because the way Sam ate was not enough to keep a baby bird alive. He was as picky as a cat when it came to food. It had been a pain in the ass for dad.

For Dean? A struggle, yes. But it had never made Dean angry like it had made dad on so many occasions. A couple of occasions of practically being force fed by their dad had not ended well and needless to say, Sam had spent the night worshipping the porcelain god, his big brother rubbing a soothing hand on his back.

Dean had let loose his huge vocabulary of swear words that night at their father after Sam had finally fallen asleep. The whispered argument would have woken Sam up usually but the kid was too tuckered out. 'Sam has to learn to survive with the bare minimum, Dean' 'He already lives with too little, dad, so for fuck's sake don't make eating a nightmare for him, too'.

And round and round they had gone, until John had stormed out with Dean's words 'You told me to take care of him. I'm doing that, dad. I'm not sure that you are' ringing in his ears.

When Sam had left for Stanford, food had just been a worry on a list of worries. But he had turned out alright. Whether thanks to cafeteria food or Jessica, Dean didn't know. But thankful he was.

Jessica's death had sent Sam spiralling. He didn't avoid food by any means, though Dean was the one to remind him. But most of the times, the food tended to make a reappearance. Quite quickly.

John's death had been harder. If that was even possible. Because Dean had been so lost within his own grief that he had taken it all out on Sam. Something he had never forgiven himself for. Even though Sam had done so.

Even though Dean knew that he didn't deserve it. Not when he had failed in the one job that he had ever had. Not when he had failed the one person who was fucking everything.

But Sam had chick flicked him into a brotherly moment and on no particular terms and with surprising colourful language, had told Dean that it was not his fault and that it was okay to grieve and that all he wanted to do was share the pain between them.

And wasn't that so very _Sam_? Except the coarse language, of course.

But staying at Bobby's had proven them both some good, even if they were barely surviving. At least, Bobby had seen to it that they were both fed and watered.

Dean had half hoped that Bobby would do the same after the deal came due too. But he had known even then that Sam would just run away from everyone.

Hide.

It was what his little brother did. Hid his grief until it festered like an infection, driving him to edges no human should ever teeter on.

While Dean didn't care for talking himself, he drowned himself in alcohol and vented by punching everything in sight.

Sam just shut himself off.

Except, it hadn't worked now, it seemed. Because Sam reeked of alcohol and he felt feather-light to Dean.

The gaunt face and chapped lips and bony cheekbones should have clued Dean in. But he had been too distracted by Sam's eyes and wanting to take the pain away that he hadn't paid any heed to the physical ailments.

In fact, the more he studied his brother, the more the signs of destruction his brother had wrought on his body, popped up.

"What am I going to do with you, Sammy?" Dean whispered, as he hoisted Sam, whose limp form was held against Dean's hip, head lolling onto his shoulder, up and into his arms. If Sam had been awake, he would have bitched to high hell and back.

If Sam had been awake, Dean wouldn't have had to carry him in the first place.

And like a little brother, the bitching would come out loud while the trust would hover unspoken in the air.

Because Sam had always trusted his big brother and chosen him over everything else.

Dean had seen Stanford coming a mile away. He had been hurt but he had been so damn proud. He had seen the guilt and the stubbornness and the pleading in Sam's eyes, the day he had dropped the bomb.

He had hoped Dean would forgive him, defend him. And Dean knew there was nothing there to forgive but he had remained silent while their dad had spoken those accursed words.

Because the hurt of Sam going away burned too raw for lovely bro moments.

Even though he knew Sam wasn't choosing. That he didn't want to choose between his own brother and education. Not until John Winchester had slammed the door on his face.

Dean sighed, shaking away the storm of thoughts and concentrating on the now too hot bundle of little brother in his arms. Sam hadn't stirred. Just continued to breathe shallowly, a permanent frown etched on his brows.

Dean hitched him up higher, adjusting his grip so that Sam's head rested on his chest. He turned towards the Impala, making his way to her slowly, being careful not to jostle Sam too much.

He could feel his arms literally begin to warm up from the amount of heat that Sam's body seemed to be giving out. He mentally added a few things to the 'taking care of Sam' list.

Tylenol and antiseptic and bandages and ice and everything that Dean could think of.

He still didn't know where they were. The closer they were to a motel, the better.

Sam suffering for any amount of time was damn unacceptable in Dean's books.

They reached the car with little to no change in Sam and a rise in Dean's worry. Carefully supporting Sam with one leg and a hand, an act perfected what with years of practice, Dean opened the passenger door.

"I'm gonna have to kick your ass later for leaving my baby unlocked, dude." Dean muttered as he lowered his limp brother onto the seat, taking care to be sure that he was comfortably seated, head lolling against the seat, before shutting the door and hurrying towards his side of the car.

Dean gingerly took a seat, fears instantly calming for a moment as he breathed in the smell of leather and sweat, with the new addition of alcohol. He laid his forehead on the steering wheel, sighing softly, hands gripping tight and reassuring for a second before dropping them on his lap.

Exhaling roughly, he reached out to shut the door, finally turning back to Sam. The younger brother looked even more ghostlike in the ambience of the Impala. Dean palmed his forehead, frowning when he felt the slight increase in Sam's temperature. His breathing now came in short, shallow gasps and his heartbeat raced as if he had just come back from one of his morning runs.

Dean scowled, gently smoothing away a few strands of his hair as they curled over his closed eyes.

"Should cut that mop of yours while you can't bitch about it, little brother." Dean remarked softly, searching for any signs that might indicate that Sam was aware of him.

He sighed again, leaning over the seat to the back, rummaging for a moment, finally extracting a blanket from the floor of the car. He pulled Sam towards him until he lay half over his lap, gingerly supporting his head, before wrapping the blanket over his chest and legs, carefully tucking in the corners.

He glanced once again at his brother's face, his own chest squeezed by a pang of overwhelming love. He laid a hand over Sam's heartbeat, smirking at himself for being a sap before turning the key in the ignition, hearing the Impala purr beneath his hands.

"Aww, Baby! I missed you too. Let's take of our pain in the ass, shall we?"


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is a very short filler chapter, cause I had this funny idea for a li'l story and just had to write it.
> 
> Tell me if y'all enjoyed it.
> 
> Thank you to all those who commented and dropped a kudos!
> 
> Loads of love and don't forget to drop a review if you can!

Dean was really, really grateful that the road was deserted. Because the number of times he had almost crashed the car scared even him. He wouldn't risk it.

Not when there was a barely aware baby brother shivering on his lap.

The constant whimpers and occasional moans was enough to melt even the coldest heart.

For Dean, who's heart broke freshly each time Sam let out even the smallest sound of pain, it was a whole new nightmare.

"'s okay, Sammy. I'm here. I gotcha." Dean whispered, a hand on Sam's forehead, as the younger brother thrashed weakly, eyes rolling rapidly beneath his eyelids.

Sam had almost always been a horrible sleeper. It was as if sleep and Sam spent their lives running away from each other. He was a light sleeper, but when it was actually time for him to wake up, Dean had a hard time getting him up.

He was a walking mystery, in that way.

Dean had always been there to chase away the nightmares. Sharing a bed when Sam was a kid. Until he had proclaimed that he was too grown up to share one.

Not that it mattered on the bad nights. Sam or Dean would crawl into the other's bed until Sam's breaths slowed down in sleep. Only then would Dean follow his brother into dreamland.

They always slept on the end closest to the other bed even now. And on pissed-off nights, they still migrated towards each other. And to think it was one of the things not ingrained by papa Winchester.

"Hey, Sam. Remember that time when we were at Bobby's and we decided that he's gonna teach us baseball? Well, I did. You were still learning to walk. And when the game ended, we decided to have a contest, me and the old man."

Dean looked down yet again, hoping for some reaction from the kid. He did seem a bit calmer. And Dean would take what he could get, right now.

He turned his gaze back to the road and continued.

"We decided to test who you would choose, if Bobby were to tempt you with those disgustingly colourful lollipops. Man, you had such a sweet tooth when you were tiny. Such a sucker for suckers, Sammy. Ha!"

The grin died when a whine escaped Sam's lips. Dean, thankfully, slowed down the car this time before bending down to whisper in Sam's ear, a gentle hand carding through the greasy hair.

"Sshh, it's okay, Sammy. 'm right here, you hear me? Sshh. I'm gonna take care of you, 'k?"

Only when Sam had settled a bit did Dean continue driving.

"Yeah, so - where was I before you interrupted me, dude?" Dean grinned again, the gesture turning out to look more like a grimace and continued. At least the sound of his voice kept himself from going mad with uselessness.

"So, we sat you bang in the centre while Bobby and I went off a few feet on either side. Bobby called you while waving the candy wildly and I called you, hands on my knees, like I was cheering on a match or something. I was so sure that you would come half crawling, half walking on your pudgy legs towards me, dude."

Dean sighed, as tears suddenly filled his eyes. When had their life gone to total shit? Because even after mom there had been days when everything seemed like springtime.

He cleared his throat, blinking away the tears.

"Anyways, so - imagine my surprise when you waddled towards Bobby. Well, I was surprised and devastated, to say the least. Even Bobby was. I think he assumed you would come to me too. You always were a clingy little critter." Dean chuckled, a fond smile touching his lips as he looked down at the now still Sam. That was an improvement in the Winchester World.

"And you walked towards him, your tiny hands stretched towards the candy and before Bobby could blink, you had it in your grasp. Ha! Just like that. And when he went to pick you up, you dodged him, fell on your ass and crawled all the way towards me."

Dean was full on snorting now as he remembered Sammy stretching his hands in a 'pick me up' gesture, one hand still grasping the slightly muddy candy, grinning toothily, all hair and dimples and wide eyes, and Bobby behind him, bent over with surprised laughter.

"Man, you always were a clever geek. You even shared the slobbering mess of a candy with me. I remember laughing until I had tears and then swinging you around. You were giggling like mad even though you didn't even know what was going on." The grin stretched Dean's cheek until he thought it was going to split his face in two.

"'cause I … loved when you … you di' that."

Dean didn't exactly crash his car, but it was a real close thing. The closest, he would say, and that was saying something.

The Impala came to a screeching halt in the middle of the dusty road and Dean automatically gripped Sam tighter to prevent him being thrown onto the floorboards.

Sam, who was looking up at him through slitted eyes, a small wistful smile on his face.

Dean exhaled sharply, bending down to rest his forehead against Sam's and trying to get his emotions in control.

"Well, you're too big to swing around now, you dork. So don't expect me to do that." Dean said, voice choked with tears.

But Sam had already drifted off to sleep.

Dean sighed again, shakily, but with a lighter heart. He started the car again, an amazed smile on his face, as he looked down once more at his sleeping brother.

"Sleep, Sammy. I'm not going anywhere. You're gonna be just fine."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did y'all think? Cheesy? Funny? Alright? Let me know in the reviews!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this chapter is absolute crap. I'm telling you. It's just a bigger filler chapter, but I PROMISE there's loads of schmoop in the next one. I just had to insert a couple of things that will maybe give trouble to the boys in the future. But I might also change my mind and not do anything about it at all. They're like storylines scattered across in the most un-obvious ways. Lol. Sorry. It just depends on my mood. After all, the Winchesters should have loads of unexpected whump.
> 
> Okay, I should stop rambling.
> 
> Also, kudos to anyone who notices the significance of the room number. Maybe a bit lame and obvious, but hey! I'm not good at remembering dates.
> 
> Thank you to all those who left a kudos or a comment!

Dean heaved a sigh of relief when a sign for a motel appeared ahead. He had been driving for the better part of an hour, Sam frighteningly still but no worse, since his small sign of coherency a while back.

He pulled up in front of the motel, quickly shutting off the engine and pocketing the keys, before turning to Sam.

His fever didn't seem worse, but was certainly higher than Dean liked. He felt for Sam's pulse, half for reassurance and half to actually check the rate of it.

A bit too fast but expected when a fever was burning through a body. Dean pushed open the door, the creak terribly loud in the silence but comforting, all the same.

"Hey, Sammy? Rise and shine, buddy. You can sleep in motel Winchester. Warm beds and cold cloths. How does that sound, huh?" Dean kept talking, hoping but not expecting a response, as he wrangled Sam half off his lap before sliding out from under him.

"Let's get you lying down, bro. You stay right there while I go get us a room, alright?" He managed to get Sam's upper body to rest on the seat, hair haloed around him on the leather seat.

Dean reached towards the back seat again, one knee balanced near Sam's head, trying to come across Sam's or his' wallet. He snagged his duffel that he had thrown in the back seat while he had been loading Sam in the passenger seat. A minute of digging inside revealed his wallet and he withdrew it before letting the bag drop with a thud onto the floor of the car.

He winced.

Sam didn't stir.

Dean gave one last look at his brother, before jumping out and closing the door as softly as he could. He cast a quick look around them, a habit that still couldn't be helped. The motel grounds seemed empty except a red truck parked a few feet away and an SUV that was even now pulling out of the lot and onto the road.

He trotted towards the reception, casting a last glance towards the car.

The counter remained empty as he pushed open the door and hurried in.

"Hello!" Dean almost yelled, trying to lower his volume as urgency pressed within him.

A couple moments later, the beaded curtain behind the counter was pushed aside as a man in his late thirties, a good head shorter than Dean, walked in. He sported a bored expression and watched lazily as Dean gravitated towards him.

"I need a room. Two queens." Dean grunted, slapping a few bills on the counter.

He struggled to contain his temper as the manager took his time bringing out the registry. He snatched it and quickly signed his name 'Dean Michaelides' before pushing it back towards the other man.

"How long?" The man drawled, not even looking up from riffling through a bunch of keys, before extricating one.

"About a week." Dean snapped, fingers tapping an irregular rhythm on the surface of the counter.

He watched with a growing scowl as the man slowly counted the bills that Dean had given him.

"Look, if you could hurry it up - I've got - " Dean huffed and stopped himself before he could reveal more than he wanted to.

And he needn't have bothered, because the man barely spared him a glance before going back to the counting.

Dean sighed harshly, casting a glance back at his car.

"You're twenty three dollars short, man." The manager said in the same slow tone, capturing Dean's attention.

Dean's eyes snapped back to him, a full on scowl now gracing his features and he dug into his wallet, and pulled out a few more Franklins and thrust it at the man's face.

"Can I have the keys now?" He asked, tone sharp, flashing a smile saccharine sweet, eyes flashing. It usually had an impact on people.

Because it was a look reserved for the monsters and the people who got between him and his brother.

If the manager had looked up, he might have flinched or maybe even taken a few steps back, hands raised in supplication.

Fortunately for him, the man didn't look up and Dean snatched the keys the man extended towards him and turned to leave.

"You guys be safe out there."

For the first time, the man's voice held an emotion other than boredom. Dean turned back, a sudden chill making its way down his spine. He wanted to get a read on the man but he had already disappeared behind the curtains.

Resisting the urge to pursue him, Dean shook himself and stepped up his pace towards the more important worry.

Always the more important worry.

The sleek black skin of the Impala quelled his worry a little and he relaxed as he reached the driver's door. He wrenched it open, a hand in his pocket as he searched for the Impala's keys.

"Hey, Sammy. You 'bout ready to crash in - Sam?" Dean's rambling came to a stop as he looked up with the keys in his hand.

The seat was empty.

Dean's breathing stuttered on a gasp and he felt his heart start pounding faster.

Because _no._

This wasn't happening. He couldn't have been gone for more than five minutes.

Just - _no_.

Only then did he notice the passenger side door standing open. Choking in a deep breath, he steeled himself and scanned the lot. Sam couldn't have gone far. Not in his state.

Except - he could have. He was a Winchester. More than that, he was _Sam_. A stubborn, hard headed, strong mule.

He looked towards the doors lining the motel, hoping to see some kind of movement.

There wasn't any.

He can't have gone far. There was no place to hide. There was no one here. There wasn't many vehicles. There weren't any -

"Stupid. Stupid! Dean, you are an idiot." He was a fool, was what he was. Because he had forgotten an important Winchester rule.

_Sometimes the hardest puzzle to solve has its answers right in front of you._

With more than a little hope, he went around to the other side of the car.

"Sammy!"

The huddled, shivering bundle near the rear door of the car drove a painful wedge into Dean's heart as he fell to his knees near his brother.

"Sam! Hey, hey! Sammy … open your eyes, dude. You with me?" Dean cried, lifting Sam's limp face and trying to get the half open eyes to focus on him.

A sudden cough from the younger man startled Dean, before he lugged the kid upright as chest wracking coughs tore through his already wrecked body.

Dean kept up a litany of nonsensical, soothing words as he rubbed a hand up and down Sam's back.

The eyes that met him held no recognition before they rolled up into a state of semi-consciousness.

Dean swallowed thickly, before taking a hold of Sam's arms and pulling him up. Like before the long legs almost gave out and Dean caught him before Sam met up with the hard ground.

He debated for a second between stuffing Sam back into the car and driving to their room and carrying him to it. He made his decision as his eyes caught sight of their room, a couple doors away from the reception.

Cursing little brothers and fevers and fevers that brought forth confusion, Dean hoisted Sam into his arms and kicked the door shut. Making his way the few feet towards their room door, Dean still couldn't help casting wary glances around them. Motels were not places that Dean trusted, let alone seedy ones in the middle of nowhere.

224 came into view and Dean hastily unlocked the door, pushed it open and beelined for the bed farthest from the door. He gently deposited Sam on the mattress adjusting the long legs so that Sam was laying flat.

The fever radiating from Sam was starting to make Dean sweat and he winced as he thought of the havoc they must be causing inside his little brother's brain.

Making a mental note of the necessary stuff, he whispered a quiet 'be right back, Sammy' before legging it back to the Impala. He set about gathering the first aid kit and a few blankets, before shrugging and adding the duffel bags to his load too. He dumped them all on his bed, pretty sure that he wouldn't be sleeping on it.

Dean paused for a moment in thought, as he went through the meds and painkillers they had in the first aid kit. It was running awfully low and his heart gave a painful twang again, as he visualized a hurt Sam and even worse, a hurt Sam with nothing to reduce the pain.

He wondered if Sam had failed to refill it after the last hunt or if he had been running on whiskey all this time. He shook the thoughts away.

_Not now._

He jogged back to the car to grab the ice box, before securely locking the doors and checking the windows. He closed the drapes, switching on the bedside lamps, before rapidly laying down the salt on all possible entryways.

The few minutes that had passed saw no change in Sam and Dean didn't know whether to be grateful for it or not.

He dropped ass on the edge of Sam's bed, smiling sadly at his little brother and palmed his forehead for what seemed like the hundredth time that day. It was a way of reassurance that strangely worried Dean more than it comforted him. He brushed off a few sweat soaked strands from eyes that remained stubbornly shut.

"I'm gonna take care of you, Sam. I am here and 'm not gonna leave you." He whispered, hoping for a response.

Winchesters almost never got what they hoped for. But Dean would make sure that he would.

He _would._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, don't say I didn't warn you! But review anyways? :))))) Pwease?! *Sam's puppy dog eyes*


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment, my lovelies <3

Sam was burning.

Alive.

Strangely, it didn't hurt as much as he thought it would.

But maybe that was because he was distracted at the sight of mom and dad and Jess and Dean - _oh God, Dean_ \- burning alive next to him. Screaming and pleading and begging at a Sam who couldn't move. Paralysed by heat and immobilized by cold.

Wait, _cold_?

One blink later he was burning alone.

Because the others had di - no, they had escaped. Yes, that was it. He wouldn't let himself wallow in the fact that none of them had escaped. They had all burnt. Burnt for him, burnt because of him and burnt despite his efforts.

He had failed and they had left him to burn alone. Just like he deserved.

But he had to get out.

Because …

Because he had promised. _Promised whom? Promised what?_

He didn't know or he didn't remember. He didn't remember if he knew.

Out. OUT!

He shifted, the ground tilting dangerously, his eyes opening to intact leather and low ceilings.

It was going to come down on him.

And suddenly the leather was nothing but the charred remains of what was once home. The sun was the fire gathering speed and driving pokers through his eyes and at his jello brains.

OutoutoutoutOUT!

He fumbled forward, half sitting, half holding on tightly to the wavering, drowning ship.

Ship?

The ship on fire, going down and under the arctic waves, the coldness lapping at him, weaving nauseous threads of hot and cold and cold and hot.

Jump ship. Needed to get out.

A little wedge that fit his shaking fingers and he grabbed it, trying to heave his body up and overboard.

A click. Then the fire was upon him, a cold rush of air making him flinch and groan.

Out.

He had to fight through it. Walk through fire. It was the least he could do. He owed him ( _who_?) that much, at least.

He slid forward, sweat slicked hands squeaking on leather, shivers running up and down every part of his body.

His feet dropped down and into the ground. Or maybe it was the ladder that fell into the sea. It didn't matter. He had to get out.

Maybe he tried too hard or maybe his limbs had given up, but the next second, he felt himself falling.

He gasped, trying to hold onto something and then his breath was knocked out from him as he impacted painfully against solid ground. And it hurt.

Gravel dug into his palms and he came precariously close to face planting on it.

Out.

He had to get out.

But wasn't he already out?

And yet he still burned.

An inescapable heat. A fire that followed him in his dreams and his waking moments. Destiny and all that crap.

He was born to be burned.

He collapsed against a solid surface, struggling not to keel over, every fiber in his body screaming at him to give up. To let the heat consume him. Ashes in the wind.

But he wouldn't.

He had promised. _Promised what? Promised whom?_

He could feel the blackness threatening the edge of his vision, breath coming in short gasps through the smoke and fire curling in and around him.

And suddenly there were hands. Or maybe it was just a trick of the wind.

His face was cradled by it.

Hands, then.

The palms were gentle, warmth engulfing him, noticeable even against the sheer heat that surrounded everything.

There was a voice. Or voices. Or sounds in his head. What, he didn't know. Maybe the voice should feel familiar. Maybe it was familiar. Maybe that was why escaping the grasp had never even crossed his mind.

A breath choked in his throat and Sam coughed. One following the other until he thought he could feel his lungs being ripped into shreds, the force of it making his eyes water.

Or maybe that was the smoke.

There was a hand at his back, moving in a strange pattern, but Sam breathed easier because of that. How did that happen?

There was the voice again. Maybe it had never stopped. It rose and fell in volume, silk and gravel mixed into one.

He lifted his head with herculean effort, searching for answers. A glance should be enough. It had to be.

All that met his gaze was a blurred figure. Nothing made sense.

That was the last thought that flitted through his mind, fire and ice billowing at him, before everything collapsed within his body and brain and he fell into abyss.

* * *

When he came to again, it was to darkness. Except for two glowing orbs of fire on either side of the … bed?

The heat had abated a bit but it was still there. There was something cool on his forehead, neck, chest, underarms, legs - they were actually covering almost every part of his body. Even … even down there, Sam realized. And he would have blushed if he had the strength to.

But then again, why would he be embarrassed? He was alone.

And suddenly, all Sam wanted was to _be_ embarrassed. For someone to see him, to be there to laugh at him … a certain someone who would tease him mercilessly or take care of a fever or shrug off compliments or look out for him like no one could.

_The one and only._

Tears stung his eyes and Sam turned his face half into the pillow, dislodging the cloth from his forehead. He frowned, focusing on his memories to remember when he had done so much to take care of himself. He tried to remember the last time when he had granted himself a break.

He didn't deserve a break.

He mentally shrugged and pushed away the cloth at his neck, before trying to sit up.

"Hey, hey, whoa! Where do you think you're going?"

To say Sam started was putting it mildly. He nearly upended onto the floor, he had flinched so hard, but warm hands caught him and laid him back. He snapped his eyes shut as his head slumped on the pillow, neck arching a bit as he tried to breath through pain.

There was a palm on his forehead, gently rubbing circles and squeezing the back of his neck before moving to lay comfortingly on his chest.

He kept his eyes closed, breathing through the thrumming that had picked up pace inside his brain.

Sam hadn't even noticed that he had had a headache to begin with.

There was a voice above him, fading in and out of the sound of his heart pounding away in his ears. He wanted to concentrate on it, but the pain took away all his remaining coherence. He pressed the heel of his palm hard against his forehead, as if he could physically push the agony away.

Finally, the ache receded a little and when he felt like his head wasn't about to burst, he opened his eyes slowly, the ceiling of a motel room coming into focus.

But Sam didn't care about the water stains on a dirty ceiling. Because his vision was occupied by something else.

Namely, Dean.

For a fraction of a moment, his heart jumped, hope blooming. Hope. The wicked elixir that had left him drowning afterwards.

Once he would have held on to that elixir.

Now, Sam just squeezed his eyes shut before opening them again. He steeled himself and met his brother's eyes, working hard not to turn away.

_He was just so goddamn tired._

The green eyes were filled with love, worry, sadness and concern, a look that Sam was familiar with.

Which made it all the more worse.

When Sam's eyes met his', Dean broke into a relieved grin, like he had been waiting for just that moment. Like he had known that Sam just needed time to get things in order as they collided with walls in his noggin'.

But then again, no one knew Sam like Dean did. Not even Sam.

Sam smiled back.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all, I just realized something. I can't write or say "Sammy" unless it's Dean saying or thinking it. Like I can't just write "Sammy tossed around in the bed". It feels too personal. Is that just me? Lol.
> 
> Also, there's a line from a song by MIKA, an amazing artist. (Hint : It's a song called Porcelain) Kudos to anyone who finds it. And you should check him out, btw, he truly is a fantastic lyricist and singer ;)
> 
> Drop a kudos or comment if you can :)

"There you are, little bro. Been waiting for your puppy eyes to open for a long time." Dean said, grin lighting up his eyes, but still holding a slight look of … _something_ … as he looked at Sam.

Like he was waiting for something more.

"Dean." Sam said, smiling slightly as he fought not to yank his blankets over his head and shut out the world.

Dean's grin faltered, confusion and worry seeping through his relief, and he tilted his head while regarding Sam carefully.

Like Sam might break at any moment.

Not that he was wrong.

_Just one breath could shatter me._

"Who else, Sammy?" Another doubtful twitch of his lips.

Sam smiled sadly. He wished he could go to sleep. He wished he had never woken up in the first place.

But since when did Winchesters get what they wanted, much less Sam?

"No one, Dean. 's always you." Sam said quietly, drinking in the sight of his brother, memorizing the freckles and the eyes and the hair and the leather jacket and the smell of gun oil, grease and just everything that was so _Dean_.

Saving it until next time. Saving it for when he was alone.

He couldn't make up his mind on which would be worse.

"I wish it wasn't." Sam added quietly, tears stinging his eyes again, as he watched confusion and hurt flit across Dean's face.

He couldn't close his eyes. He wanted to … but he also didn't.

Dean turned away for a second, reaching out to grab a fresh cold cloth he had dropped on the bedside table in his hurry to catch his brother who had been trying to get acquainted with the floor.

When he turned back, the patented Dean Winchester grin was back in place, leaving no trace of the hurt and confusion from before. And it was all so damn Dean that Sam's heart hurt.

He wanted to comfort Dean, tell him that he could see through his bullshit, had always been able to see through it.

But he didn't spare the effort. What was the use, after all? His breath caught in his throat and he struggled to even it. A faint nausea rose within his stomach and he swallowed, hoping he didn't end up chucking the little bile he still had. He wondered if he felt this sick because of the circumstances or if he was actually that ill.

"Sammy?" Dean's voice was soft but pierced him to the very core.

It was the 'Big Brother' voice, Dean had said once. It was the voice that was soft, kind, caring and chock full of love that Sam's heart warmed to the very core.

_"You can always tell me anything, Sammy. That's what big brothers are for."_

_"I'll make it better, Sam. Just close your eyes."_

_"It'll be okay, Sammy. Just tell me what's going on in that head of yours."_

And Sam was yet to deny that voice.

He met his brother's eyes again and quirked his lips in what he was hoped was a smile.

"What happened?" He murmured.

Dean shook his head slightly and went back to laying out the cold cloths on Sam's forehead, the younger man sighing slightly as it eased his headache a little.

"Went to get us a room and found your sasquatch form collapsed outside the car. Gotta tell you Sammy, in all my life ... " Dean paused, wincing a bit as he waited for Sam to react, frowning when he didn't, still staring at him with an impassive look. He continued, clearing his throat, " ... I um I've never known anyone who got into as much trouble as you do."

He grinned when Sam's lips twitched up in a tiny smile, counting it as a small win.

"Your fever was through the roof. It's slightly better now, but I still don't like it." Dean said. His little brother gave no response except to nod slightly.

Dean sighed and plopped down on the bed, hip touching Sam's leg. He ran a hand down his face and met Sam's eyes again. There was a flicker of worry in Sam's eyes and it gave hope to Dean.

Maybe he wasn't as lost as he had assumed.

"Look, Sammy, I don't know what's going on in your head, but I'm here, alright? You're gonna be okay, little brother." Dean said softly, not taking his eyes off Sam's. He could see the myriad of emotions playing around the young man's eyes as tears sprang into them.

"I - Please. I can't - not again. Just - I'm tired." Sam whispered, eyes slipping shut.

"Can't do what, Sammy?" Dean prodded gently.

"This. You. I know that I can never have this and it fucking hurts. _It hurts, Dean."_

The broken voice was all that Dean needed to gather up the younger man against him, Sam's arms floundering a bit before coming around to clutch Dean tight.

"It's okay, Sammy. You don't have to - not again, not ever. I'm so so sorry." Dean murmured against Sam's hair even as he felt the wetness of tears soaking his shirt.

"Sorry's not - 's not gonna bring y' back, De."

Dean stilled in his gentle rocking, exhaling harshly as he took a moment to understand what Sam had just said.

Sometimes the complexity of Sam's brain astounded him.

Dean drew back a little. Sam whimpered, clutching him tighter, eyes still shut firmly. Dean sighed, vision blurry as he took in _his Sam_ looking so much older yet reminding him of a four year old boy, trusting his brother to save him from the nightmares and dreamed up monsters.

_"If you close your eyes, you can forget what you saw and dream about your own awesome world. I'm here, Sam. You just gotta close your eyes, Sammy. I gotcha, kiddo. I gotcha."_

"Sam."

Sam gave no response other than to try to push his head into his big brother's chest. Hide from the world. Hide from reality. Hide from the truth.

Dean tilted Sam's face up gently, with two fingers, chuckling a bit as Sam still kept his eyes tightly closed in a childish gesture.

"Look at me, Sammy. Open your eyes."

Sam shook his head.

"Please, Sam. Just for a moment. It's okay. Trust me."

Sam audibly gulped, before blinking open tear filled eyes.

Dean thumbed away the tears sliding down his face, grasp tender as he held Sam's upturned face between his hands.

"I'm real, Sam. This is real. I got out of hell, Sammy. You saved me."

Sam stared at him, disbelief now warring with hope.

He shook his head slowly, bangs brushing his slightly wet, too hot forehead as the cloth lay forgotten between them.

"How? How do I _know_ for sure?" Sam whispered, oozing desperation, putting forth every atom of faith and belief and trust into Dean. Like he had always done. Like he hadn't been able to do since _that_ night.

And it was all Dean's fault.

Dean closed his eyes, the words sending jagged shards of pain into his heart. A million options soared through his head. Corny ones like _feel my heartbeat, feel me breathing, that's real._ Except he knew that that was so unlike him, Sam would sooner believe that the Earth was flat than that Dean was real.

Dean breathed in deeply, before holding Sam's gaze carefully.

"I don't know, Sammy. But trust me, I'm going to be here every time you open your eyes. I'm not gonna leave you, alright? Never again." Dean's firm tone finally penetrated Sam's mind and he relaxed just a little bit before his eyes slipped shut, the exhaustion wrought by the fever and the misery finally taking hold.

"'kay, Dean." His tone soft and blank and so damn sad. But there was trust woven into it and Dean would take it where he could.

"Okay, kiddo. How about you get some sleep? It'll be better when you wake up." Dean gently pushed Sam into the bed, watching as Sam's gaze met his' one last time. He stayed there for a while, even as his brother's breaths evened out and he fell deep into sleep, hands smoothing tangled curls away from his forehead.

For the umpteenth time, he wished there was something he could do to make it all better. He wished he could go back to being little Sammy's batman.

But for now, he would be Sam's big brother.

The only job that had ever mattered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another lame ending, I know. Sorry. I just couldn't figure out how to convince Sam that Dean was real. Then I realized, he probably wouldn't be convinced anyways. Probably. Lol. Thank you to all who reviewed and gave me love! Review this one too :D Stay tuned. More Sam hurt coming up.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read and review, my darlings! And thank you to all those who reviewed, liked and followed the story.
> 
> Read on ... (But don't kill me, lol.)

Sam dreamed.

He dreamed of burning. He dreamed of drowning. He dreamed of Dean. Dreamed of Dean burning and drowning. Fiery waters that glowed a dark red with yellow eyes peering from amongst the flames. He could hear screaming. A litany of 'no's and 'stop's. He could feel tears flowing down his heated cheeks and he could not save Dean from burning.

He swam through water as thick as quicksand, barely moving but just within reach of Dean. If he could just touch his leg and pull him from the ceiling ... maybe then he could rescue Jess and mom and dad burning nearby.

And just like that everything disappeared until all that he had was the smell of burning flesh and blood on his hands. Out of his reach, out of rescue.

_Too little, too late._

_Dean._

_Please -_

He could hear screaming again and he wanted it to stop. Wanted the silence to come back. Anything was better than the helpless sounds that resonated from far away. He wanted to make it ...

... _stop_

_wake ..._

_Sammy ..._

He could hear Dean's voice starting up again, static echoes of memories as it filtered through his ears. Dean calling his name.

Except he wasn't.

He was still in hell, burning for Sam's mistakes and failures. Paying for Sam's fuck-ups. Bearing Sam's burden like he had done all his life.

Agony tore through his chest and this time _he_ wanted to scream. He could hear the voices coming back to taunt him. Or maybe they had never left.

_If you walk out the door, don't you ever come back._

_You're a selfish bastard, you know that?_

_Why? Why, Sam? WhywhyWHYWHYWHY ..._

_It's your fault. You killed her._

_You killed him. You killed them._

_You killed them all._

_You have demon blood in you. Impure. You were born to lead demons._

And over and over and over until Sam felt himself fading. Felt his hope, whatever little he had, fading away into nothing. Until the tears ( _Tears?)_ tapered off, mouth still open in a silent scream and his gaze met a blurred ceiling.

There were cold touches to his forehead and cheeks and neck and pleading words whispered in his ears. But none of the words made sense and without meaning to, Sam drifted off into blackness, a helpless whimper passing through his lips.

He woke again with a moan, this time escaping tendrils of shadows and clowns and smoke that made his eyes water. Made him cough.

Something cold and plastic nudged at his lips and he turned away with a moan. Nothing made sense. He was floating but felt something weighing him down.

There was Dean's voice.

But Dean was ...

_... here every time you open your eyes ..._

Had it been a promise? A wish? A dream?

He wanted to know. He _needed_ to know. But he couldn't open his eyes.

_... wake up, Sa..._

And suddenly he could. Maybe it was the strength that that voice had always lent (even though he didn't really recognize it). But open his eyes he did.

It wasn't a dream. He knew that. Or he hoped. But he clung to it because ...

_... every time you open your eyes ..._

Dean was here. Just like that, the fire and hell and the fever and the headache didn't matter anymore, because _Dean was here_ and it hadn't been a dream.

"Heya, Sammy."

Dean smiled at him tiredly and Sam suddenly wondered why. Why was Dean tired? Suddenly wondered if he was okay, wanted to make the pain and helplessness in those eyes go away.

"'kay?"

He had meant to ask if Dean was okay, but whatever, the last syllable of that sentence would do too. Dean would understand. He always did. He had interpreted Sam's baby talk, his emo talk, his grief talk, his pain talk and every other talk. Dean was the only one who knew what Sam wasn't saying.

Dean huffed out a laugh, swiping a hand down his ragged face.

"You ... you're asking me, _me,_ if I'm okay?", a pause where he looked at Sam with incredulity and amusement, and then, "Of course, that's ... I'm fine, Sam. I'm doing good." Dean concluded with a smile, shaking his head slightly.

"Good." Sam mumbled, slipping his eyes shut, before forcing them open. He still wanted to keep Dean in sight. In case he ... _No._ Dean said he would be there and Sam believed him. Always had. And Dean had never yet let him down.

"How're you feeling, Sammy? You cooking up a bad fever there." Dean questioned, brows drawing together in concern as he placed a palm on Sam's forehead.

Sam leaned into the relative coolness, eyes slipping shut even as he fought against the exhaustion. He could hear Dean talking to him again, urging him to ... do something, he didn't know what.

_... some water for me ... Sam ..._

He remembered that he hadn't answered Dean's question. But ... didn't really matter.

_As long as Dean was okay ... as long as he was here._

* * *

Dean wiped a hand down his face. He was tired. He stared at his brother's face, as he slowly fell into sleep. Pale except for the colour of fever on his cheeks. A fever that refused to let up no matter the cold cloths and air conditioning aimed Sam's way.

They needed more. And soon. Before Sam's brain became toast. Already the heat continued to only rise, not even remaining stable. Dean exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair, eyes darkening as he remembered the last couple of hours.

He was sprouting a black eye from when Sam was "defending" himself. But he barely felt that. Only the utterly agonised screams still echoed in his mind.

And the cries for help.

_For Dean._

How many times had Sam woken up the same way, calling out for a big brother who was not there? A big brother who had selfishly left him here to hunt alone. To _live_ alone.

_Not normal. Safe._

Except, even though Dean had always known there was no normal for Winchesters, he had always hoped for safe. Maybe if he had let Sam go, that night in Cold Oak, he would have been with Jess. With dad. With mom.

But no, Dean had to go "save" him. And for what? To fade away slowly trying to get Dean out of the deal? To watch his brother die? To waste away with no one by his side?

 _Had_ Dean been selfish? Yes. Dean knew that. But never in a million years had he imagined the extent of what it would cost Sam.

_Everything._

_You'll be alright. Is that what you really think?_

Except it was. That had been exactly what Dean had thought.

Dean had never been a talker. He had preferred to numb the pain with alcohol. When dad had died. When Sam had left for Stanford. When he found that dad had sold his soul. When they couldn't save someone and it stuck with him.

Sam had never been a drinker. He had preferred to talk it out. To go all emo over it until it made some sort of sense and then to talk it out with someone. Most of the times, that someone was Dean.

He didn't always talk though. Whined about little things, putting on the little brother mask. The big stuff gnawed at him, _consumed_ Sam. Before he eventually succumbed by breaking down and Dean was always there to catch him.

But this Sam, _this Sam,_ had drunk himself almost to the point of alcohol poisoning. This Sam had ignored the needs of his body and had failed to live. He had somehow survived and for that Dean was thankful to a God he didn't even believe in unless it came to Sam. This Sam had hunted almost everyday, it looked like. Hunted with nothing but darkness in his soul, because the light was gone.

This Sam had _destroyed_ himself trying to free Dean.

And now ... now he couldn't even make Sam believe that he wouldn't suddenly disappear. It was like Sam couldn't believe that he was back. Like he couldn't believe that _he,_ Sam fucking Winchester, was not capable of saving Dean.

Did he really think so little of himself?

And yet, he had been concerned about Dean the moment he woke up. Maybe the _Sammy_ part of him still remained, buried deep or forgotten. Maybe _Sammy_ lived only as long as Dean did.

_Only he's allowed to call me that._

A bittersweet smile broke Dean's face. "Aw hell, Sammy. What am I supposed to do now?". Words that echoed from so long ago, but with the same intent. Looking for the same answers. A way to save Sam.

Dean shook his head, trying to stop the fresh tears. An overwhelming need to do _something_ took over him. He stood up abruptly, nearly knocking over the chair he had been sitting on for the past two hours or so.

He caught it before it could thud back to the floor, glancing at Sam who thankfully remained asleep.

Dean stretched over his little brother, picking up the still wet cloth on the other side of the blanketed form and laying it back on his forehead. Sam shifted, sighed and went still again. Dean remained hovering until he was sure that Sam had slipped back to sleep, before moving away.

He had wanted Sam to drink some more of the water that Dean had crushed a couple of fever reducers in. The last of it. But Sam had slipped back into sleep too quickly.

And God, Dean knew he needed the sleep.

So did he, for that matter, but he dismissed that thought as soon as it came. Sam had always come first and that was never going to change.

He needed some fresh air, like yesterday. Needed to get his guilt and despair under control. Needed to be strong for Sam. Needed to get Sam's screams and pleas as he had writhed in the hold of nightmare after nightmare, out of his head.

They needed medicine. Clothes, ice, food, drinks, first aid supplies. And maybe a few blankets.

He needed money. Which there wasn't much of. Baby needed refuelling but she had nothing against Sam who needed anything and everything until he got better and Dean could talk to him.

Unfortunately, the store was at least a couple of miles from the motel, if the huge ugly advertisement was to be believed. So, he needed money.

While that was not a problem usually, he didn't exactly have time to play some pool right now. He needed quick money and lots of it.

He needed help.

Dean squeezed his aching eyes between his thumb and forefinger, lights sparking beneath it before letting out a huge sigh.

Casting one last glance at Sam, he grabbed his cell from the nightstand and quietly made his way to the door. He shut the door with a soft snick and flipped open his phone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup, a cliffie. Sorry sorry. I'm gonna bring a new character because ... well, just 'cause. Lol. Kudos to anyone who can guess who it will be. Though it's just the early seasons. There weren't many characters to choose from, I guess. Heh.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Review, please, my lovelies!

Bobby was coming.

That single thought was enough to lift off some of the weight on Dean's shoulders. Granted, the old man was pissed and Dean was pretty sure that he didn't believe that it was actually him. But at least he had agreed to show up for Sam's sake, with the promise to gut the "blackeyed son of a bitch" if he had laid a hand on Sam.

He repressed a shudder as he stepped into the room. As glad as he was of Bobby's protectiveness over his little brother, he knew better than to piss Bobby off. The grouchy old man was not a force to be messed with.

He just hoped he would make it out of the reunion with all his limbs intact. He did have a little brother to watch out for, after all.

 _Bang up job you've been doing,_ a voice in his head chimed and he shook his head, focusing on the unmoving lump on the bed.

It would take eight hours for Bobby to floor it to Astoria Motel, Pontiac, Illinois. Dean had had to scout around for a bit before realizing their location. The couple moments that had taken him away from the room had made his heart thunder and he had kept glancing back at their room.

And Bobby's growls from the other end had further confirmed the fact that he thought Dean was some fugly they were hunting, wearing Dean's mug and taking his voice.

_"You thinkin' of a good place to kill me, you sonovabitch? Didn't plan good, didja?"_

Dean sighed, double checking the salt lines and the protection sigils. He was bone tired and was desperately in need of sleep.

But he would have to settle for the next best thing.

He rifled through both his and Sam's wallet, coming up with a few measly dollars and a couple of cents. It would have to do. It was just until Bobby reached here, Dean reminded himself.

Besides, without caffeine, he was pretty sure that he would fall asleep and God knows Sam couldn't afford Dean unresponsive.

There wasn't enough money for food, but Dean would make do. That's why candy had been created, after all. Some M&M's for him and maybe some soup or juice for Sam. He would probably toss it right back out, but Dean would try.

Now for the bigger problem. How could he leave Sam here alone and hurting? He could imagine all types of nasty scenarios and then some. And not all of them was purely his overactive imagination either. Imagination wasn't required when "Sammy" and "Trouble" occurred in the same sentence.

Life, since he was four years old, had taught him that.

And now with him coming back after four, _four damn months,_ Bobby's words echoed in his head, and Sam not believing that he was real yet, even the mundane minded would figure out the havoc it would wreck on Sam's mind if Dean suddenly disappeared.

And yet ...

Sam needed food and so did Dean, if he didn't want to crash hard. He could be back within ten minutes.

_What could go wrong?_

Yeah, right, Dean snorted dryly to himself.

He tiptoed towards Sam's bed and looked down at the pale visage that was his brother. The cold cloths seemed to be working for now. The fever wasn't as high as before. He methodically rewet all the clothes and laid them back on Sam. Sam gave no indication that he was awake except the occasional shiver as a cloth touched his hot skin.

Despite the situation, the amulet hanging on his brother's neck brought a smile to his face.

Dean's amulet. The amulet he had gifted Dean when he was eight years old. The one Dean had never removed once since then. The one Sam had apparently taken from Dean's cold, bloody body and kept it safe.

The meaning behind it was not lost on Dean.

_Only Sam._

"You hold on, Sam. You hear me? I'm gonna pop out for some caffeine and grub. I'll be back, Sammy." He palmed Sam's forehead, smoothing away the slightly damp bangs away from his eyes before pulling away. Tucking the blankets more comfortably around Sam, Dean stood there for a moment, debating whether to wake Sam up and inform him of his little trip.

He could almost predict the panicking and the eyes that would plead him not to leave.

Which meant that Dean would give in and stay.

He sighed, rubbing his eyes in frustration for what seemed to be the millionth time that day.

He would go to the store and be back before Sam even twitched.

Yep. Seemed about right.

He nodded to himself.

Laying a hand on Sam's shoulder for a moment, he made certain that Sam was still deeply asleep, before grabbing the cash and the Impala's keys and walking to the door.

He glanced back one last time at the figure sleeping on the bed before softly shutting the door softly, locking it and pocketing the keys.

* * *

Sam knew something was different the moment he woke up. He kept his eyes shut as he listened for some kind of sign. Some leering comment by the kidnapper of the week or the demon that had managed to get the better of him.

God knew that had happened more often than not in the past four months. If Dean ever got wind of the amo-

_Dean._

With that his eyes snapped open.

The empty motel room seemed to mock him.

He felt hysteria bubbling forth and smothered it with difficulty, choking on a sob.

Of course. It had all been a dream. To think that he had actually believed his fever dreams or whatever twisted vision the demon had showed him. He was a fool. He had given in to his dreams. Just what they wanted.

_Remember what I taught you, Sammy._

And he had failed even in that. Failed Dean.

For a moment, Sam wondered if he had been hunting a Djinn. But then again, he must have gotten out. Because he was pretty sure that this agony of waking up alone in a double motel room was not one of his wishes three.

He sat up quickly, the cold cloths falling unnoticed onto the bed and the floor, and threw off the blankets with barely a glance towards them. He had work to do. God knew what had brought him here but he would rather die than wait for whatever it was to come back and torture him with more visions.

He had no more hope but he did have something to hold onto.

And that was in Pontiac, Illinois in the middle of nowhere, untouched by the supernatural.

The young hunter swayed as he stood up from the bed, the edges of his vision greying out, breath stuttering and all the blood rushing out of his face. He gasped in deep breaths trying to ward off the encroaching blackness and finally, after too long, he stayed on his feet, relatively stable.

He stumbled on towards the door, knocking over the water bottle on the nightstand, and paying no heed to the water that now spilled over the hardwood floor and was soaked up by the carpet.

Sam had expected the door to be locked but it didn't stop him from dealing a vicious kick to it. His leg now throbbed in time with the rest of his body. He scowled, searching for a lockpick or at least a paperclip.

Only then did he realize that he was shaking. And that he wasn't wearing anything but his boxers.

A shudder that had nothing to do with the cold tore through him and he suppressed the urge to throw up at the thought of a _something_ undressing him.

He had to get away before it came back. He would recover his strength as usual, but not here. Motels never worked nowadays. He had tried it for a few days until the nightmares drove him mad.

He wasn't sure what he would do if it came back. Or worse, came back wearing Dean's face.

Hopefully Sam would be far gone by the time it returned to the room.

He looked around for a potential lockpick and spied his wallet lying on the table. Frowning, at both its presence on the table and his developing headache, he stumbled the two steps towards it before digging into the dirty leather wallet. It was empty.

And near it lay Dean's wallet.

Which held a couple of paper clips, a beer can opener, a long expired credit card, a napkin with some girl's number that Dean had undoubtedly stuffed there before ...

It had also had a few bucks.

All of which Sam had rifled through so many times but had left untouched.

Except now ... now the money was gone.

A flash of red hot anger rippled through him and he before he realized it, he had snapped one of the paper clip into two.

When he found the bastard who touched what belonged to Dean ...

The spark of adrenaline sent Sam's dizziness and aches to the back of his mind and he stomped to the door, making quick work of the lock. The tiny click did nothing in the matter of satisfying him and before he knew it, he was outside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Btw, next update may be even slower, 'cause college. Ugh. Who tf decides to give us three assignments in a single week? Anyways, review, mon amies. Maybe it'll prompt me to update quicker ;)


End file.
